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[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1841, 
by Carey & Hart, in the Clerk’s office of the District Court for 
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.] 



Printed by 

Haswell, Barrington, and Haswell. 


The Violet for the year 1842 has been prepared 
with the intention of uniting useful moral instruction 
with rational entertainment. The taste of young 
people for narratives and simple descriptive poetry 
seems to have established the style and general cha- 
racter of annuals designed particularly for them ; 
and the delight, which they take in well executed 
pictures, renders them indispensable in a work of 
this class. It is believed that, in all respects, the 
Violet now offered will be found to come up to the 
standard already established by public opinion. 

The embellishments, it will be perceived, are by 
first rate artists, and the subjects to which they re- 
late are believed to be such as have a peculiar charm 


4 


PREFACE. 


for the young, whose favourite sports and pursuits 
they so beautifully illustrate. 


To all good boys and girls the editor cordially 
wishes a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. 


©®KJ c Q , SK]'ir© C i 

PAGE 

Ismena : an Historical Sketch of Ancient Greece. 

By the Author of “ The Rival Crusoes” . 9 

The Farmer’s Boy : Hymn in Harvest Time. By 

Charles West Thomson -27 

The Turkish Orphan : a True Story. By John 

Carne, Esq 30 

The Fisherman and his Son. By Bernard Barton, 

Esq 44 

An Infant’s Dirge. By J. F. Hollings, Esq. . 46 

The Locust 48 

The Veteran 55 

My First Misfortune 60 

The Release of the Caged Lark. By Mrs. 

Moodie ...... ‘ 82 

The Little Shepherdess. By Miss Agnes Strick- 
land 86 


6 


CONTENTS. 


The Fisherman’s Daughter 

Contentment 

Conscientiousness. By Isabel Hill 

Training. By J. B. L 

The Picture. By Mrs. Moodie 

Charade 

Little Red Riding-Hood. By Isabel Hill . 

The Block House. By J. B. L 

Temperance 

A Melody. By N. Michell, Esq., Author of « The 

Siege of Constantinople” 

The Fawn. By J. B. L. 

Amiableness 

The Prisoned Fairy. By M. H. R. . 

The Dance. By J. B. L 

To an Infant 

The Story Book. By Charles West Thomson . 


PAGE 

89 

91 

111 

116 

• 

123 

143 

145 

148 

152 

174 

176 

184 

206 

208 

211 

213 


[y©^ ®F gG^giyLQgmgMT©, 


1. Frontispiece — Mi Bor and his Bird. En- 

graved by J. B . Forrest, from a Painting by 
E. T. Parris. 

2. Title Page — Childhood. Engraved by 

J. I. Pease, from a Painting by Fanny 
Corbeaux. 

3. The Farmer’s Boy. Engraved by W. E. 

Tucker, from a Painting by Shayer . page 27 

4. The Veteran. Engraved by Oscar A. 

Lawson , from a Painting by R. Farrier . 55 

5. The Fisherman’s Daughter. Engraved by 

Oscar A. Lawson, from a Painting by Lover 89 

6. Training. Engraved by J. I. Pease, from a 

Painting by R. Farrier 116 

7. The Fawn. Engraved by G. II. Cushman , 

from a Painting by Edwin Landseer . .176 

8. The Musical Box. Engraved by G. H. Cush- 

man, from a Painting by Mrs. G. Ward . 206 






. . • 




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0 © K3 @ IN A B 


AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF ANCIENT GREECE. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ THE RIVAL CRUSOES.” 

The setting sun sunk gloomily behind the wood- 
crowned heights of Ira, gilding with a wild and fitful 
splendour the towers and ramparts of that last 
stronghold of freedom in Messenia, which its heroic 
chief, Aristomenes, had so long and gallantly main- 
tained against the superior numbers and approved 
military experience of Sparta, from whose galling 
yoke he had been the means of delivering his 
country, though the changeful fortunes of war had 
exposed him and his brave followers to those severe 
reverses which, after the many valiant exploits he 
had achieved, appeared to render the issue of the 
glorious struggle for independence not merely 
doubtful, but desperate. 

Rhodope and her young daughter, Ismena, the 

2 


10 the violet. 

widow and orphan of a valiant Messenian soldier, 
who had fallen in the cause of his country, contem- 
plated this spot in the distance from the door of their 
lonely cottage, with feelings that became the wife 
and child of a patriot hero, while they lifted up their 
voices in prayer, for the brave assertors of the 
liberty of their native land. 

The interval between the departing beams of 
day and the approach of darkness, is not, as in our 
northern hemisphere, softened, by imperceptible 
gradations, into the mellow shades of twilight ; but 
of such short duration, that the last rosy reflection 
of the sun’s disappearing disk, has scarcely faded 
from the tops of the hills, ere the impending veil of 
night involves the landscape in obscurity. The 
Messenian widow and her daughter had not tarried 
for this moment: they had marked, with some un- 
easiness, the hurried and portentous aspect of the 
clouds that over-hung Mount Ira ; and the heavy 
drops of rain that began to patter through the em- 
bowering vine-leaves, that entwined the rude pil- 
lars, and over-arched the porch of their humble 
dwelling, drove them within the interior of the 
cottage for shelter. 


ISMENA. 


11 


Ismena trimmed their red earthen lamp, lighted 
and placed it on the rough-hewn tripod that served 
them for a table, and, with her mother, commenced 
the task of carding and spinning the fleeces of their 
newly-shorn ewes, in which the whole riches of the 
gentle pair consisted. 

While thus engaged, the careful mother observed 
that Ismena was absent and abstracted ; that the 
distaff lingered in her usually active hands, and her 
youthful brow wore the impress of deep and troubled 
thought. 

“ Has my daughter any cause of uneasiness which 
she conceals from her mother 1” demanded Rho- 
dope, after having watched the maiden’s countenance 
long and anxiously. 

“ None, my mother, none !” replied Ismena, fling- 
ing herself upon the neck of her tender parent. 

“ Why, then, this silence and abstraction, my 
child 1” 

“Mother, I was pondering on my last night’s 
dream,” replied Ismena, looking earnestly in her 
mother’s face. 

« The dreams of damsels who have scarcely seen 
their fourteenth summer, may truly be expected to 


12 


THE VIOLET. 


contain something perfectly oracular !” rejoined 
Rhodope, with a smile. 

“ Nay, nay, my mother,” replied Ismena, blush- 
ing: “it was because I foresaw you would treat it 
as a jest, that I told you not the dream on my first 
awaking ; and, indeed, in the fresh and joyous morn- 
ing, I regarded the matter more lightly than I can 
persuade myself to do now. Bear with my weak- 
ness,” continued the maiden, drawing her stool 
closer to her mother’s knee ; “ and I will declare it 
to you: and perhaps your wisdom may afford an in- 
terpretation that may satisfy me on the subject.” 

“ You are aware, my child, that I attach little im- 
portance to dreams,” replied Rhodope : “ neverthe- 
less, I am willing to listen to your’s, if it will afford 
you any satisfaction.” 

“ Know, then, my mother,” said Ismena, casting 
a timorous glance round the apartment, “ I saw, in 
my dream, last night, a wild and stormy sky, such 
as we observed at sunset, and heard, between the 
angry mutterings of distant thunder and the heavy 
pattering of the rain, the dismal howling of a pack 
of wolves that surrounded the cottage, and at length 
forced an entrance, dragging with them a fettered 


ISMENA. 


13 


lion, of the most majestic appearance — only they 
had deprived him of his claws, and were gnashing 
upon him with their teeth, and appeared upon the point 
of tearing him to pieces. Methought, too, my 
mother, these felon wolves regarded us with fero- 
cious glances; but, though we were thus involved 
in the lion’s peril, I could not think of our danger 
for very pity of the noble beast’s distress : and, some- 
how or other, I was enabled to charm the murderous 
rage of the wolves, so that they became suddenly 
quiescent, while I cut the lion’s bonds, and furnished 
him with fresh claws, on which he courageously 
attacked his base enemies, the wolves, and tore 
them all to pieces: and with the noise of their 
growling I awoke, breathless with terror, and much 
disturbed in spirit, to know what this strange vision 
might portend.” 

“ If,” said the matron, thoughtfully, “ your dream 
proceeded merely from the idle wandering of the 
ever-active, but mis-directed, powers of fancy during 
the hours of slumber, then will nothing eventful 
follow ; but, if it were indeed a revelation from the 
Gods, you will find that it was not sent in vain : 
may they grant that it bode no evil to the lion of 


14 


THE VIOLET. 


Messenia, our glorious Aristomenes, who hath 
already been too often the sport of capricious for- 
tune!” 

“ Mother,” said Ismena, “ I blush to acknowledge 
that I am unacquainted with the early history of the 
man whom you have so often charged me to pray 
for, and to reverence as the defender of the liberties 
of my native land.” 

“ 1 ought not to be surprised at that, Ismena,” re- 
plied her mother, “ when I remember that you were 
an infant at the breast when those things took place 
which led to the long and desperate strugglefor the 
national independence of Messenia, and were too 
young to notice those momentous events which filled 
the hearts of your parents, and all around you, with 
feelings of the most painful interest ; and the death 
of your brave father, who fell covered with wounds, 
while defending the person of his heroic leader, from 
the swords of a party of Spartan soldiers, by whom 
he was surrounded, happened during that thoughtless 
period of early childhood, when, unconscious alike 
of your own bereavement and your mother’s wo, 
you smiled upon my tears, played with my garb of 
widowhood, and clapped your .little hands, admir- 


IS MENA. 


15 


ingly, when the flames arose from the funeral pile 
on which the lifeless forms of your parent and his 
brave companions in arms, who hadfallen with him, 
were consumed.” 

“ Alas ! alas ! my mother, how must my infant 
glee, at such a moment, have increased your sor- 
row !” said Ismena. 

“ You knew not what you did, my child ; and it 
was your innocent caresses that reconciled me to 
life, and enabled me to support the succeeding years 
of melancholy bereavement and poverty,” said Rho- 
dope, embracing the weeping girl. “ Come, dry 
your tears, Ismena ; and I will relate to you the 
history of this long and bloody war with Sparta, in 
which is involved an adventure of the valiant Aris- 
tomenes, of so remarkable a nature that it rather 
resembles one of the songs of Homer, than a real 
occurrence, which happened within my memory. 

“ Our country, which had for many years success- 
fully maintained its independence, as a nation among 
the rival states of Greece., was at length so much 
harassed by the constant assaults of the jealous 
Spartans, that both nations, by mutual consent, con- 
sulted the oracle of Delphi, as to what course should 


16 


THE VIOLET. 


be pursued in order to restore peace, and received 
for answer, that whoever should first dedicate one 
hundred tripods in the Temple of Jupiter, atlthome, 
one of our strong-holds, should be master of the 
country. Our countrymen, being too much im- 
poverished to cast them of brass, began to carve 
these votive tripods out of wood ; but, though this 
was a tolerable subterfuge, they were outwitted by 
the superior ingenuity of a Spartan, who, having 
got into the city by stratagem, dedicated one hundred 
little tripods of clay in the temple, before bur arti- 
ficers had half executed their task : and our coun- 
trymen were so completely paralized at the success 
of this scheme that they submitted to the Spartan 
yoke, without a struggle. 

“The melancholy effects of their superstitious 
weakness were too soon experienced by our unhappy 
countrymen, who were treated in all respects as 
slaves, by their new masters, and underwent every 
species of insult and barbarity, till Aristomenes, a 
man less distinguished by his noble birth, though a 
descendant of our ancient line of kings, than for his 
worth and valour, incited his fellow-artisans to a 
revolt, having privately engaged the Argives and 


1SMENA. 


17 


the Arcadians to assist the Messenians against Sparta ; 
but, before the promised succour could arrive, the 
Spartans attacked his newly raised bands of inex- 
perienced and ill-armed peasants, at a village called 
Verce , where victory crowned the generous cham- 
pions of freedom; and so greatly did Aristomenes 
distinguish himself, both by his skill and personal 
valour, that his grateful country, with one voice, 
saluted him — King. But this title he magnani- 
mously declined, lest his exaltation should create 
jealousy among his companions in arms ; and, as no 
motives of private interest sullied the brightness of 
his character, he assured those who pressed him to 
accept a crown, that ‘he served his country for her 
own sake, and preferred remaining her General to 
accepting of any dignity she might be willing to 
confer.’ 

“ Under his auspices the dying spirit of Messenia 
revived, the days of our ancient glory were restored, 
and the eyes of all Greece were upon the struggle 
for freedom, which was so undauntedly maintained, 
sometimes in the brightest smiles of victory, and, but 
too often, under reverses that might have quelled 
the courage of a mightier nation. But Aristomenes 
3 


18 THE VIOLET. 

was the leader of the Messenians, and his resolve to 
purchase liberty for his native land was unconquer- 
able. When the treachery of his feeble-minded 
allies, seconding too well the martial skill and over- 
powering numbers of Sparta, had frustrated his 
most promising designs, and his once formidable 
army was reduced to three hundred men, and every 
town in Messenia was in the hands of the foe, he did 
not then despair, but, refusing to accept the advan- 
tageous terms that were offered him on condition of 
laying down his arms, he fortified Mount Ira, which 
he held out for years against the combined force of 
Sparta. From this place he occasionally issued 
forth with a party of his valiant followers, and pil- 
laged the Laconian frontiers : by which means he 
procured food for the garrison that continued to 
defend Ira in his absence. At length, becoming 
bolder, he surprised and took the city Amzela?, in 
which he found a rich booty, not only of provisions, 
but of silver and gold and other precious things. 
Unfortunately, the cupidity of his little army induced 
them to load themselves so heavily with these fatal 
spoils, that, before they could reach Ira, they were 
taken by the whole of the Lacedaemonian army, 


ISMENA. 


19 


under the two kings of Sparta ; and, though Aris- 
tomenes performed prodigies of valour, he, after 
having had the mortification of seeing the greater 
part of his brave followers slain, fell covered with 
wounds ; and, while in a state of insensibility, was 
carried off the field of battle by his victorious ene- 
mies, with about fifty of the Messenians, who sur- 
vived the slaughter, to experience a more dreadful 
fate : for no sooner was the valiant Aristomenes in 
some measure recovered from his wounds, than the 
ungenerous Spartans basely decreed that he, with 
the rest of hie captive countrymen, should be cast 
into a deep and lothsome cavern, which was the 
common punishment of those who had been guilty 
of the most infamous crimes. 

“ This cruel sentence was executed with the ut- 
most severity; and the only indulgence that was 
allowed Aristomenes, was leave to put on his 
armour. The unfortunate hero remained for three 
days in this dismal place without food, surrounded 
by the dead and dying, and almost suffocated with 
the noxious effluvia from so many putrefying bo- 
dies; when, on the third day, just as he had sunk 
in a state of exhaustion on the lifeless bosom of one 


20 THE VIOLET. 

of his last surviving companions in calamity, and 
enveloping his head in his mantle, was preparing to 
die, he heard some animal gnawing near him : and, 
uncovering his face, he perceived a fox just by him : 
and with that presence of mind which never deserts 
persons of superior minds even in the worst extre- 
mities, he seized one of its hind legs, and with his 
other hand defended his face, by catching hold of its 
jaw when it attempted to bite him. The fox then 
made desperate attempts to escape ; and Aristo- 
menes, being assured that there must be some aper- 
ture by which the animal obtained ingress to this 
doleful abyss of misery, followed, as well as he 
could, his reluctant guide, till, at length, he thrust 
his head into a small hole in the side of the cave. 
Aristomenes then let go his hold, and the fox pre- 
sently forced his way through the aperture, and 
opened a passage to the welcome rays of light, from 
which our heroic chief had been so long bebarred. 

“ Bodily exhaustion, loss of blood, sorrow and 
hunger, were alike forgotten at that blessed sight ; 
and Aristomenes hastened to enlarge the outlet with 
his nails, till he had worked a sufficient opening to 
allow his wasted form to pass through : and, travel- 


ISMENA. 


21 


ling all night with all the expedition that his newly 
recovered energies allowed him to exert, he arrived 
at Ira by break of day, to the great joy and amaze- 
ment of his surviving countrymen, who had mourned 
over his supposed death with a grief to which 
no words could do justice. The Spartans, who 
knew they had every reason to reckon Aristomenes 
among the dead, treated the report of his being again 
in Ira with contempt, till he sufficiently proved his 
identity, by falling upon the posts of the Corinthians, 
who, as allies of Sparta, were assisting at the siege 
of Ira ; and, having slain all their officers, and a con- 
siderable number of their men, he pillaged and 
burnt their camp; and, on the Spartans themselves, 
so deeply avenged the treatment he had recently 
received at their hands, that they were fain to sue 
for a forty days’ truce, that they might have time to 
bury their dead.” 

Ismena, who had listened with breathless inter- 
est to her mother’s narrative, now broke in upon her 
with a sort of stifled cry, exclaiming, “ May the 
God$ protect us ! I hear the steps of armed men 
approaching the cottage.” 


22 


THE VIOLET. 


“ It is only the rush of the blast, and the distant 
roar of the thunder,” said Rhodope, taking up the 
lamp, and approaching the door, as if with the in- 
tention of convincing her timorous child that their 
solitude was not likely to be broken in upon ; but 
the next minute the frail portal was assailed by so 
heavy a blow from the butt-end of a lance, that its 
insecure fastening gave way, and allowed free en- 
trance to a company of Spartan archers, who rudely 
impelled forward a captive Messenian of majestic 
port and sad, but intrepid, countenance, whose 
hands were bound behind him with leathern thongs. 

“The lion, the captive lion of my dream !” ex- 
claimed Ismena, losing all terrors for herself in the 
absorbing interest which the noble prisoner excited 
in her young generous heart. 

“ It is the valiant Aristomenes, my child !” mur- 
mured her mother in a low guarded tone, impatiently 
pressing her arm to enjoin caution. Then stepping 
before her young and blooming daughter, as if to 
shield her from the bold glances of the rude soldiery, 
she demanded what was their business at that un- 
seasonable hour, at the house of a lone widow. 


ISMENA. 


23 


“We require food and shelter from the storm, 
mother,” replied the leader of the party ; “ and, un- 
less you bring forth all that your house contains 
peaceably, we will take it by force.” 

“ The household Gods judge between ye and me,” 
replied the widow, pointing to the images of the 
Lares and Penates, that were placed near the hearth, 
according to the custom of these times : “ I am in 
no condition to resist your robberies. Ismena, pro- 
duce our little store of bread, of honey, cheese, and 
mead.” 

The alacrity with which Ismena obeyed her 
mother, appeared to have a great effect in restoring 
their unwelcome visitors, who had taken some um- 
brage at her mother’s words, to good humour ; and, 
when she proceeded to broach a skin of excellent 
mead, with which, and other ingredients, she pre- 
pared for them a drink of potent strength and sweet- 
ness, they bestowed upon her the highest commen- 
dations, compared her to Hebe, and protested that 
she was worthy of the honour of becoming the wife 
of a Spartan. 

Ismena listened to these compliments with ap- 


24 


THE VIOLET. 


parent satisfaction, and continued to ply them with 
the highly praised beverage, regardless alike of her 
mother’s looks of wonder, and the awful glances of 
reproof with which the stern and silent Aristomenes 
watched her proceedings. She had, however, in- 
fused the narcotic resin of poppies into the drink, of 
which the Spartans swallowed such deep draughts, 
that, soon overpowered by its oblivious influence, 
they successively sunk into an inebriate slumber, 
till all were in a state of stupefaction. Ismenathen 
softly arose from her seat; and, drawing a poignard 
from the belt of their leader, she cut the thongs that 
confined the wrists of the noble Aristomenes, and, 
placing it in his hands, she whispered, “ Lo ! I have 
severed the bonds of the captive lion, and furnished 
him with claws, and it now rests with him to destroy 
the wolves, according to my dream.” 

The unconquered spirit of the mighty Messenian 
was aroused by this unhoped-for prospect of deli- 
verance. “ I never slew a sleeping foe before,” he 
exclaimed : “ but the fate of my country is bound 
up in mine ; and these men treacherously made me 
their prisoner, in defiance of the sacred obligation of 


ISMENA. 


25 


a truce : therefore have I the less scruple in destroy- 
ing them.” 

The next minute the seven Spartans laid helpless 
in their blood. 

“ Maiden,” said Aristomenes, turning to the pale 
and trembling Ismena, who, though her patriotism 
and generous sympathy for the unfortunate had im- 
pelled her to perform the part of a heroine for the 
deliverance of the defender of her country, had now, 
since the perilous adventure was achieved, forgotten 
every thing but woman’s softness and compassion, 
and, shuddering at the sight of blood, was weeping 
on her mother’s bosom ; — “ Preserver of Aristo- 
menes and of Messenia, name thy reward for what 
thou hast done.” 

“ The love of my country, the gratitude of Aris- 
tomenes, and the remembrance of posterity,” replied 
Ismena, with a kindling eye and flushing cheek. 

“ Thou shalt have them all,” returned the mighty 
Messenian; “ and more,” continued he, taking her 
by the hand, and regarding her sweet and modest 
countenance with a paternal smile : “ for thou shalt 
go with me and thy mother to Ira, where thou shalt 
4 


26 


THE VIOLET. 


wed my eldest son Gorgus ; for thou art worthy to 
become the wife and the daughter of heroes.” 

Those of my young readers who are familiar with 
the pages of Grecian history are aware, that, won- 
derful and romantic as are the incidents of my 
tale, they are strictly compatible with truth ; and 
those who are not, will do well to read the life of 
Aristomenes, the brave deliverer of Messenia, which 
I promise them they will find more truly interesting 
than any tale of fiction I ever yet perused. 





A 












THE 


HYMN IN HARVEST TIME. 

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 

’Neath summer’s bright and glorious sky, 
While proudly waves the golden grain, 
And through the falling fields of rye 
Comes on the joyous reaper train — 
While nature smiles, and hill and plain 
Are tranquil as the sleeping sea, 

And peace and plenty brightly reign 
By homestead hearth and forest tree — 
God of the seasons, unto thee we raise 
Our hands and hearts in melody and praise. 

There is a sweet breath from the hills, 

The incense of the mountain air, 

Which from a thousand flowers distils 
Its odours delicate and rare — 


28 


THE VIOLET. 


We feel its balm — we see it there 
Among the bending wheat-blades move, 
Kissing their tops in dalliance fair, 

As if its very life were love — 

God of the harvest, whence its breezes blow, 
Receive the humble thanks thy creatures owe. 

Our loaded wain comes winding home — 
Then let us rest beneath the shade 
Of this old oak, our verdant dome, 

And watch the evening shadows fade — 
O’er mount and meadow, lawn and glade 
They spread their deep’ning tints of gray, 
Till all the scene their hues pervade, 

And twilight glories melt away — 

God of the world, who round thy curtain throws, 
Thanks for the time of quiet and repose. 

How still is nature all around ! 

No song is sung, no voice is heard 
Save here and there a murmuring sound, 

As if some restless sleeper stirr’d — 

The grasshopper, night’s clam’rous bird, 


THE FARMER’S BOY. 


29 


Chirps gay, but all is hush beside — 

And silence is the soothing word, 

Whose spell diffuses far and wide — 

God of the universe, by night and day, 

We bless thee for the gifts we ne’er can pay. 


Philadelphia. 


THE T MB IK Q © H ® B P H A KI a 

A TRUE STORY. 

BY JOHN CAR NE, ESQ. 

During the struggle for the independence of 
Greece, I happened to visit its capital city, Tripo- 
lizza, that had been taken by assault a few months 
previous. The greater part of the population was 
put to the sword, for the conquerors did not spare. 
The dwellings of the Turkish nobles were ravaged ; 
and the blood, even of ladies and children, was shed 
in their very chambers. There was a palace at the 
extremity of the town, whose apartments were richly 
gilded, and its windows looked over the plain beyond, 
and the lofty chain of mountains. In this luxurious 
home had lived a Turkish nobleman, greatly esteem- 
ed by the people ; for he was generous, and kind to 
the poor. He was slain, with all his family, save 
one beautiful boy, of about seven years of age. I 
sometimes entered this desolate home, and saw Gre- 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


31 


cian soldiers there, gaming, drinking 1 , and seated on 
the rich floors. And there was also seen, at times, 
the orphan child, wandering amidst the rooms where 
he had been reared in luxury, where he had 
known a mother’s tenderness, and where the blood 
of father, mother, brother, and sister, had been poured 
forth like water. Two of the former servants of 
the family always attended him, and watched over 
his safety ; but there was no danger — even the fero- 
cious soldiery looked on him in pity, and spoke kindly 
to him. There was in the boy’s aspect an expression 
of fortitude and patient suffering, that was enough 
to touch the hardest heart: if he had wept and 
mourned, the stranger would not have felt half the 
interest in his favour. But there he stood, or sat, 
silently, his slender form clothed in alight pink robe 
and tunic of silk, and a white turban on his brow, 
gazing sadly around, or lost in his own reflections. 
His complexion was very fair ; but his beautiful eye 
was perfectly dark, as was also his hair. His fathe* 
had been general of the garrison, and was a man of 
high rank, as well as wealth ; and the spirit of a 
soldier seemed to be in the boy’s look, as he surveyed 
the weapons ranged against the walls, or handled the 


32 


THE VIOLET. 


silver-hilted daggers that lay on the floor. Many 
©f them were his father’s arms, that he remembered 
well. But when he entered the harem, or ladies’ 
chamber, where he had been nursed, it was almost more 
than he could bear ; for the windows of richly stained 
glass, the words from the Koran, in letters of gold, 
with which the walls were covered, the fountain, 
and the garden beyond — all these things were fami- 
liar to him from infancy : thither the women fled 
when the Greeks entered. It might be said, in the 
words of Scripture, “ Death entered into all their 
pleasant chambers, suddenly.” The orphan had no 
friend left on earth : he told me, that, could he get 
to the sea shore, and embark, there were relatives 
at Constantinople, who would show him kindness. 

Could any thing be more desolate than his situa- 
tion 1 but “ God will surely not forsake the father- 
less,” and in Him the Turkish boy, young as he was, 
put his trust. We need not observe that the Maho- 
metan religion, in which he had been brought up, is 
one of error: the poor child knew little of its delu- 
sions ; but he knew that in Alla, or God, there was 
mercy and power, to protect the helpless ; and he re- 
solved to be faithful. The Greeks, who greatly ad- 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


33 


mired him, tried every method, both of persuasion 
and menace, to induce him to abandon his faith and 
embrace their own. It is true, the Greek religion 
has more of Christianity, but it is also full of super- 
stitions, even more dark and weak than the Roman 
Catholic : besides, it was the religion of the murder- 
ers of his family ; how could it appear to the noble 
Selim to be one of love and peace 1 There never 
was more heroism and fidelity displayed in one so 
young. “ No,” he replied, “ 1 will never forsake the 
faith of my dear mother: her hope was in Alla; 
when she was dying, I heard her call upon His 
name, and consign me to His care ; and has He not 
kept me, and shall I desert him for a new religion'!” 
They offered him rewards and patronage, and that 
he should be taken from his present destitute state — 
he was immoveable : they threatened him with death 
— he told them calmly he did not fear to die : and 
then they ceased to trouble him. Poor child ! What 
hopelessness was before him ! Who was there to 
counsel, or to aid, or guide him! to take the thorns 
from his way, and scatter a few roses there t No 
one, even of the savage conquerors, took him for a 
servant or a slave ; they saw that his heart could not 
5 


34 THE VIOLET. 

bear it, and would break in the trial; but they let 
him wander about the town with his two faithful at- 
tendants. A few of the wealthier Greeks gladly 
gave him food, and invited him, at times, to make 
their homes his own. To my home, which was a 
dwelling that I had hired, he often came ; but no en- 
treaty could induce him to sit down at table with me ; 
whether it was pride, or a deep sense of his altered 
circumstances : but he would stand with his arms 
folded on his breast, and his look bent on the ground, 
and wait till I had finished eating, and then he would 
sit down alone to his repast. His expressions of gra- 
titude were warm and heart-felt; and, though he 
never was seen to weep by the Greeks, yet when he 
spoke to me of the dreadful doom of his family, he 
often shed a flood of tears. He told me with what 
indulgence his mother had always treated him — the 
rich dresses, the beautiful dagger that he wore, and 
the milk white poney that he used to ride into the 
plain, and even to the foot of the mountains. Often 
she sat at her window, watching his return ; for he 
was her youngest child, and she loved him the most. 
Poor Selim ! those days were never more to come. 
More than a week he lived beneath my roof ; for, as 


* 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


35 


the Turkish army drew near the town, in order to 
besiege it, the Greeks became exasperated, and it 
was not safe to allow him to go abroad. At this 
time, he would sit for hours during the day in the 
corridor, that looked into the garden, and to the plain 
beyond : he longed, it was evident, to escape, from 
the town. More than once I endeavoured to effect 
his passage to the sea-shore, a journey of three days ; 
but the danger was too great, for the Greek officers 
refused to allow him to depart : so that the fond hope 
of once more finding friends, beyond the sea, was 
closed. At last, I succeeded in placing Selim under 
the care of an aged Greek, a humane man, but who 
dearly loved money : the small sum given with the 
orphan was an additional claim on his kindness. 

During several months he lived in the family of 
the Greek : as time wore on, his sorrows seemed to 
press less heavily on his mind ; but he never joined 
in the sports or amusements of the Greek children, 
Perhaps it was because they often took occasion to 
abuse his country and his people — a Turk was a 
bye-word in their mouths: his little hands w*ere 
clenched, and his eye flashed, as he felt the iron 
enter his soul. Oh, how miserable is captivity at 


36 


THE VIOLET. 


every age ! We know not what it is to depend on 
the kindness, and hang on the smiles, of the stranger ! 
never more to see the faces of parent or friend, or 
hear the sound of their voices. Can we he thankful 
enough to God, while they are spared to us — can 
we value too highly their care and love! 

Sometimes his companions tempted Selim to go 
with them to their places of worship ; but he would 
not, and preferred to wander forth alone, without 
the walls, where no eye was upon him. And here 
there was a ghastly scene, which he could not 
always avoid : it was a narrow glen or dale, very 
near the walls, to which the cruel Greeks took 
numbers of the inhabitants, and put them to death. 
Their bones were still scattered all around, for no 
burial had been given to the slain ; and the boy’s 
feelings were harrowed when he looked on them. 
About five hundred of the unfortunate Turks were 
yet suffered to live within the town ; not in wealth, 
or comfort, or luxury, as many of them once had 
done, but in secret poverty and misery. To visit 
these people was the sweetest business of Selim’s life. 
When the gloom of evening came on, he would steal 
through the streets to their poor homes, up a narrow 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


37 


or broken flight of steps, or through dark avenues, 
that led to desolate abodes. My foot also had been 
familiar with these places ; for I admired the con- 
stancy with which these Turks suffered, and strove 
to lighten their poverty. But the coming of the 
orphan child of their Prince and General, the man 
they had so loved and esteemed, was welcomed by 
these people with tears and blessings ; they gathered 
round him, and kissed the hem of his robe, and his 
hands and feet. This was rich consolation: his 
spirit wa3 lifted above his fallen condition, for they 
spoke in rapture of those he had lost; and then they 
spoke of brighter days to come, and the proud hopes 
he ought to cherish. 

At last an opportunity came for his escape. A 
small party of European officers, who had come to 
Greece to fight for its liberty, was to set out in a 
few days for the coast with some Greek soldiers. 
Selim was disguised, in the European dress, as one 
of their servants ; for they felt an interest in his 
fate : and, provided he could bear the fatigue of the 
way, there was every prospect of success. The 
hope of liberty, of being once more among his own 
people, and treated according to his rank, was in- 


38 


THE VIOLET. 


expressibly sweet : — the old Greek, who had shel- 
tered him so long, would fain have persuaded him 
to remain. 

The day had scarcely broke when the party left 
the town on foot, and proceeded rapidly over the 
plain, of several leagues in extent. The heat was 
very great, for it was now the middle of July: the 
party could pause but little, on account of the 
dangers of the way; parties of Turkish soldiers 
scoured the country on every side, and, should they 
fall in with them, they could expect no mercy. The 
night was far advanced ere they halted, beside a 
well, sunk deep in the earth, close to the path. 
These wells are frequent in Greece, as well as in 
the East, for the solace and refreshment of the way- 
faring man, when no habitation is near, and he is 
ready to faint by the way. In Greece, as in Pales- 
tine, there are few rivers or streams: by digging a 
few feet deep in the earth, a fountain of water, 
always deliciously cold and fresh, is thus opened : a 
stone covering, or arch, is placed over the mouth. 
Was it not thus in the times of old, when Jacob 
journeyed into the land of Laban, and the stone was 
rolled from the mouths of wells of a similar kind, 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


39 


when the shepherds and their flocks gathered round 
to drink 1 After resting a few hours here, the party 
pursued their march ; but, ere noon of the second 
day, Selim’s strength began to fail: his steps falter- 
ed, and he was unable to keep up with the pace of 
his companions, who resolved to halt awhile beneath 
some trees, and wait till the noon was past. It was 
a welcome relief: he drank some wine from the 
flask of one of his companions ; and they said that, 
by to-morrow’s eve, they should be on the sea-shore: 
so that, when the heat was somewhat abated, he was 
able to set out again. Soon after sun-set they en- 
tered a forest, on the mountain side : there was no 
longer any immediate danger of falling in with the 
enemy ; but they could hear, at intervals, their cries 
and shouts from the plain beneath. Late at night 
they came to a cottage in the wood, inhabited by a 
Greek family, where they procured some refresh- 
ment. As the people were civil and attentive, 
and seemed to look with pity on the child, 
the Greek soldiers of the party said it was better to 
leave him behind, as a further delay might cause 
the ruin of them all. Even the European officers 
seemed to be of the same opinion ; but, as Selim 


40 


THE VIOLET. 


declared he would proceed till he sunk by the way, 
they refused to desert him. He begged to be allowed 
a little slumber, and lay down on the bed of the cot- 
tagers, and sought to close his eyes in sleep ; but 
his delicate frame was overwrought. The burning 
heats of the way, and the great rapidity of the march, 
had fevered his blood; but the thought of liberty, 
now so near, and of soon being in the loved land of 
his people, nerved his spirit to the last. The women 
of the family asked him of his home and his parents : 
he said that he had no home, that he was born to be 
a prince, and his native roof was a palace ; but God 
had taken all from him, and made him desolate. 
They smiled at his words, and bade him try to sleep, 
that he might get strength for the march. At mid- 
night it was resolved to proceed, for this was the 
last halt they intended to make; and the third 
morning broke as they descended the lofty hills, and 
saw, afar off, the bay of Calamatta, and many a 
vessel anchored on its bosom. A cry of joy was 
raised by the band, and Selim looked to heaven with 
a beaming eye, and repeated the words which, during 
the journey, were often on his lips, “ that the spirit 
of his mother watched over him.” 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


41 


They gained the foot of the hills, and were just 
advancing on the rich vale that stretches to the sea, 
when a small troop of Turkish cavalry, that had 
watched their descent, suddenly issued from a wood 
at a short distance : a few Greeks, who had joined 
the party on the march, instantly fled up the decli- 
vities, where they were safe; but the Europeans 
stood their ground, and fought bravely. After a 
short and desperate action, the few yielded to the 
many : the Turks dismounted to strip the wounded 
and slain ; and, to their great surprise, recognised 
a boy of their own people, bleeding to death from the 
wound of a pistol-ball ; and, when he told them, in 
a faint voice, the name of his father, they raised him 
from the ground with the deepest pity and regard : 

— there were those among them who had served 
the noble Aga, before the storming of Tripolizza ; 
and the fierce soldiery cursed the deed they had 
done. They would have lifted him on one of the 
horses, to bear him gently to the shore ; but the 
orphan boy felt that the angel of death was at hand : 

— from the few words he spoke, and from his ges- 
tures, it seemed he was glad that it should be so, 
that his path of suffering was near its close. In his 

6 


42 


THE VIOLET. 


little life, of seven years, he had known more sorrow 
and anguish, more loneliness and horror, than gene- 
rally falls to the lot of man. He said he was going 
to join his beloved parents, and he smiled faintly as 
he said it; and his beautiful dark eyes flashed brighter 
as life ebbed away. The Turkish officer stooped 
and kissed his brow and his cheek, and wept over 
him ; and Selim feebly lifted his clasped hands, and 
blessed God that he died among his own people, and 
not among the murderers of those he loved. He 
paused a little, and then he said that he had never, 
even in his extremity, forsaken Alla, in whom his 
mother taught him to trust, and whose mercy had 
been with him. He pointed eagerly to the shore : 
— they understood the sign, and raised him in their 
arms ; and he gazed intensely on the sea and the 
ships, some of which were now spreading their 
sails to the wind : — “ Oh, I had hoped,” he mut- 
tered, but the words died away ; and he fell back, 
with a deep sigh, in the arms of the soldiery. When 
evening came, they covered the corpse with flowers, 
and wrapped it in a white shroud ; and they said it 
should never rest on the Grecian shore. It was 
borne to the town of Calamatta, and enclosed in a 


THE TURKISH ORPHAN. 


43 


rich coffin. A vessel, bound to Constantinople, car- 
ried the remains of the orphan to the relations of 
his father. As the vessel bore out to sea, the Turkish 
soldiers stood on the shore, and beat their breasts, 
and rent their garments, and lifted up their voices, 
and wept. 




ras fqshemaki Ha© ©@m. 

BY BERNARD BARTON, ESQ. 

The morning is beaming ; 

Its first light is streaming 
On the crests of the clouds ; — with its beauty they 
glow; 

And soon it will brighten 
Those dark cliffs, and lighten 
The foam of the ocean-waves breaking below. 

On the beach met together, 

For fair or foul weather, 

The old Fisherman sits with his Son by his side ; 
Their dog seems exploring 
The deep wildly roaring, 

While they patiently wait for the flow of the tide. 

When it comes they will get up, 
Their sail they will set up, 


THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SON. 45 

And o’er the wide sea steer their shallop away , 
There follow their calling, 

Of fishing, or trawling, 

In peril and hardship the rest of the day. 

Yet think not these only, 

Their lot, although lonely 
Their life may appear on that bleak ocean shore ; 
Much have they to cheer it, 

And much to endear it, 

And what we might shrink from endears it the more. 

Use easy has made it, 

And habit arrayed it 

In colours which soften privation and pain ; 

Its toils and its dangers, 

To these fearless rangers, 

Are trifles of which they would scorn to complain. 

Yet, somehow or other, 

Each tar seems a brother 
To a warm English heart ; and, as these meet my 
view, 

With all my good wishing, 

For them and their fishing, 

I wish they were safe back again — do not you ? 


AM QMFAM'D’ 3 © 


BY J. F. HOLLINGS, ESQ. 

Sleep — behold thy couch is spread, 

Early dweller with the dead ! 

Where the moss is bright of hue, 

And the speedwell glistens blue, 

And the daisy, trembling near, 

Bows beneath its dewy tear. 

Rest thou, softly — toil and care ; 

Sorrow’s tempest, — evil’s snare ; 
Anguish, inly pining still ; 

Sin, which stains the holiest will ; 

And the darkening thoughts which wait, 
Shade like, on our brightest state, 

Mighty as their force may be, 

111 are armed to trouble thee. 

We had hoped, when years should darken, 
To thy voice of love to hearken, 


AN INFANT’S DIRGE. 


47 


As to sounds of promise given, 

Telling of that wished for heaven ; 

But a wiser voice hath spoken, 

And the spell of hope is broken. 

We had thought to mark thee long, 

With thy liquid notes of song, 

And those eyes with tears unwet, 

Sporting by our threshold yet ; 

But a blight is on thy brow, 

And what boots the vision now ? 

Every name of former kindness, 

Tells but of our heedless blindness. — 

Fount — thy little source has failed thee ! 
Tree — the wild wind has assailed thee ! 
Flower — thy leaves with dust are blended ! 
Star — thy course of light is ended ! 


THE 


Few thinking persons can look at this insect with- 
out remembering those words of Scripture, — “ God 
hath chosen the weak things of this world to confound 
the strong;” because this seemingly insignificant 
creature in his hands becomes a dreadful scourge, 
and goes forth to execute his vengeance on the na- 
tions of the earth. The young reader will doubtless 
recollect, that the plague of locusts was one of those 
signs and wonders wrought by the Lord in the midst 
of the land of Egypt, to humble the pride of its im- 
pious and unbelieving monarch. 

Locusts were seen in different parts of Britain in 
1748, and great mischief was apprehended ; but the 
coldness and humidity of the climate prevented them 
from increasing, and they all perished. 

The annals of most warm countries contain fright- 
ful accounts of the devastations committed by locusts. 


THE LOCUST. 


49 


Those which appear in Europe are supposed to be 
bred in the interior parts of Asia and Africa. This 
insect is about three inches long : the head and horns 
are of a brownish colour ; but it is blue about the 
mouth and the inside of the larger legs. The shield 
that covers the back is of a greenish hue, and the 
upper side of the body brown, spotted with black, and 
the under side purple. The upper wings are brown, 
with some small dusky spots, and one large spot at 
the tips. The under ones are more transparent, and 
of a lighter brown, tinted with green, and a dark 
cloud of spots near each tip. 

These insects are said to take the field under the 
command of a general, to whose flight and motions 
they pay the greatest attention. Their appearance, 
at a distance, resembles a cloud ; and, as they ap- 
proach nearer, they obscure the light of the sun. 

The following interesting account of the ravages 
in Spain, committed by the red-winged locust during 
1754, and the three succeeding years, was published 
in Dillon’s Travels through that country : — 

“ In these years the locusts were continually seen 
in the southern parts of Spain, purticularly in Estre- 
7 


50 


THE VIOLET. 


madura. In 1754 their increase was so great, from 
the multitude of females, that all La Mancha and 
Portugal were covered with them, and totally ra- 
vaged. The horrors of famine were spread even 
further, and assailed the fruitful provinces of Andalu- 
sia, Murcia, and Valencia. These locusts seemed to 
devour not so much from a ravenous appetite, as from 
a rage of destroying every thing that came in their 
way. It is not surprising that they should be fond 
of the most juicy plants and fruits, such as melons and 
all manner of garden fruits and herbs, and feed also 
upon aromatic plants, such as lavender, thyme, and 
rosemary, which are so common in Spain that they 
serve to heat ovens ; but it is very singular, that they 
equally eat mustard-seed, onions, and garlic, nay even 
hemlock, and the most rank and poisonous plants, such 
as the thorn-apple and the deadly night-shade. They 
will even prey upon crowfoot, the causticity of which 
burns the very hides of beasts ; and so universal is 
their taste, that they do not prefer the innocent mal- 
low to the bitter furze, or rue to wormwood, consum- 
ing all alike without any apparent predilection or 
favour. Out of curiosity I examined the stomach of 


THE LOCUST. 51 

the locust, and found a soft, thin membrane, contain- 
ing a liquid with which it dissolves all kinds of sub- 
stances equally with the most caustic and venomous 
plants, extracting from them a sufficient and salutary 
nourishment. I next examined its head, which was 
about the size of a pea, though longer: its forehead 
pointing downwards, like that of the handsome Anda- 
lusian horse ; its mouth large and open, and its eyes 
black and rolling. In its two jaws it had four inci- 
sive teeth, whose sharp points traversed each other 
like scissors, their mechanism being such as to gripe 
or cut ; and its wings were of a fine rose-colour. 
When these formidable insects rise, they form a 
black cloud that intercepts the rays of the sun : the 
clear atmosphere of Spain becomes gloomy, and the 
finest summer’s day of Estremadura more dismal than 
a winter’s day in Holland. The motion of so many 
millions of wings in the air, seems like the trees of 
a forest when agitated by the wind. The first direc- 
tion of this immense column, (which is commonly 
five hundred feet in height,) is always against the 
wind, which, if not too strong, will extend the army 
of locusts a couple of leagues in length. The insects 


52 THE VIOLET, 

then make a halt, when the most dreadful havoc be- 
gins, their sense of smell being so delicate, that they 
can find at any distance a corn-field or a garden, and, 
after demolishing it, rise again in pursuit of another : 
this may be said to be done in an instant. Each is 
endowed, as it were, with four arms and two feet : 
the males climb up the plants, as sailors the shrouds 
of a ship, and nip off the tenderest buds, which fall 
to the females below. 

“ The female locust generally lays about forty 
eggs, which her sagacity teaches her to screen from 
the intemperature of the air, by forming for them a 
retreat underground : — the manner in which she 
constructs this cell is very surprising. In the hinder 
part of her body, nature has provided her with a round 
smooth instrument, which, at its head, is as big as a 
writing quill, diminishing to a hard, sharp point, hol- 
low within, like the tooth of a viper, but only to be 
seen to be so with a lens. At the root of this vehicle 
there is a cavity, with a kind of bladder, containing a 
glutinous matter of the same colour, but without its 
consistency or tenacity, as that of the silk-worm, as I 
found by an experiment made for the purpose, an infu- 


THE LOCUST. 53 

sion of vinegar for several days without any effect. 
The orifice of the bladder corresponds exactly with 
that of the instrument which serves to eject the glu- 
tinous matter : it is hid under the skin of the belly, 
and can partake of its motions, forming the most ad- 
mirable contexture for every part of its operation. 
She can dispose of this fluid at pleasure, which has 
three very essential properties: first, being indissolu- 
ble in water, it prevents the young from being 
drowned ; next, it resists the heat of the sun, other- 
wise the structure would give way and destroy its 
inhabitants ; lastly, it is proof against the frosts of 
winter, so as to preserve a necessary warmth within. 
For greater security, this retreat is always contrived 
in a solitary place : for, though a million of locusts 
were to alight upon a cultivated field, not one would 
deposit her eggs there ; but, whenever they meet a 
barren and lonesome situation, there they are sure to 
lay their eggs. In June the young brood begin to 
make their appearance, forming many compact bodies 
of several hundred yards square, which afterwards 
climb the trees, walls, and houses, devouring every 
thing that is green in their way. Having lived nearly 


54 


THE VIOLET. 


a month in this manner, they arrive at their full 
growth, and throw off their worm-like state by cast- 
ing their skins. To prepare themselves for this 
change, they affix their hinder part to some bush, or 
twig, or corner of a stone, when immediately, by an 
undulating motion, their heads first appear, and then 
the rest of their bodies. The whole transformation 
is effected in seven or eight minutes, after which 
they remain for a little while in a languishing con- 
dition ; but, as soon as the sun and air have hardened 
their wings, and dried up the moisture that remains 
after casting off their former sloughs, they return to 
their wonted greediness with an addition both of 
strength and agility. 

“ Locusts are the prey of serpents, lizards, frogs, 
and carnivorous birds. They are used as an article 
of food by the inhabitants of Barbary, and are pub- 
licly offered for sale in Tunis, and other places.” 


‘THE 


Ah, boys ! I do not love to see this feeling in your 
hearts, 

And to my weak and aged eyes the tear unbidden 
starts, 

As memory strays o’er by gone days; when I, like 
you, my boys, 

Thought of a soldier’s life as one of triumphs and of 
joys; 

But, ah ! a long, long life of care and sore distress 
has taught, 

That ’t is not in the scenes of war that pleasure may 
be sought, 

I once had friends as kind as yours — a cheerful 
happy home — 

But I prized them not : my young heart yearned 
o’er the wide world to roam. 


56 the violet. 

I loved the soldier’s glittering coat, — the drum’s 
deep rolling sound ; 

And I loved to hear the martial tread that shook the 
earth around. 

My boyish spirit longed to join that seeming happy 
band; 

I cared not then for friends and home, nor for my 
native land ; 

I longed with them to wander far in distant climes, 
to see 

That world which in my youthful dreams seemed 
fair and bright to me. 

I went — I left my father’s house, my mother’s 
tender care, 

To the rude and brutal scenes of war which I was 
forced to share. 

My tender limbs were nightly stretched upon the 
damp cold earth, 

And often was I made to join in scenes of brutal mirth. 

Repentance came — alas! too late. I could not 
then return, 

And I trembled ’neath my captain’s eye — so pitiless 
and stern ! 


THE VETERAN. 


57 


Each day by hardships ever new my burning heart 
was wrung, 

They had no pity on my youth ( and I was very 
young). 

But years passed on, and I, at length, became inured 
to pain ; 

I ceased to feel their cruel taunts — I flung them 
back again ! 

I now could face unshrinkingly the scenes of blood 
and crime ; 

But, oh ! my boys — I loved it not — ’t was a heart- 
sickening time : 

I ’ve seen the brave and joyous youth cut down in 
all his pride, 

And firm and steadfast veteran, low lying by his 
side • 

I ’ve seen a mother beg in vain, with agonising tears, 

The life of her beloved son — the mainstay of her 
years. 

I ’ve seen that noble boy led out to die before her 
eyes, 

And the heartless soldiers as they passed mocked at 
her tears and cries ! 

8 


58 THE VIOLET. 

These are the scenes of war, my boys ! this is a 
soldier’s life ; 

Not as you think, a happy one : — ’ tis care, and toil, 
and strife I 

And now a weary, sad old man, I have returned 
once more, 

To spend the evening of my days, at my own cottage 
door. 

’T is soothing to my heart to feel, again, that friends 
are nigh, 

To have them round me while I live, and in their 
arms to die. 

My life has been a stormy one, by adverse fortune 
driven, 

But I murmur not, for now I know there’s rest for 
me in Heaven.” 

Thus spake our venerable friend one summer holi- 
day, 

When we, a group of merry boys, were busy at our 
play ; 

Deep sunk his words into our hearts as from his lips 
they fell, 


THE VETERAN. 


59 


And seemed to thrill the inmost soul with some be- 
witching spell. 

That hoary head is now laid low, that voice is hush- 
ed for aye, 

But we ’ve never played at soldiers since that oft 
remembered day. 

M. H. R. 












IV IF Q B [MQ©l?®[i3 t u , ®KieB 


When, as a child, I made my way into my father's 
office in search of my kitten, or of any ball or shuttle- 
cock that might have bounded in through an open 
window or door, I commonly took the liberty of stay- 
ing a little while to make my observations on the 
mighty apparatus for law business there stored up. 
After a peep into some enormous law books, T once 
very innocently asked how many laws of England 
there were which people must not break if they 
wished to be safe. My father’s answer threw me 
into great trepidation ; and I presently determined, 
that, if I passed through life without being brought 
before a jury, it would be by a lucky chance, and not 
by integrity founded on civic knowledge. I little 
thought, at that time, how much easier it was to 
evade the pains and penalties of positive, written 
laws, like those laid down in my father’s books, than 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 61 

of those the limits and application of which must be 
determined by every one for himself. In proportion 
as my terror of civil laws has abated, my anxiety 
about the rules of conscience has increased. I have 
long 1 perceived, for instance, that I, a young lady of 
good family and fortune, stand in no particular peril 
from the laws against poaching, or fraudulent bank- 
ruptcy, or sedition and rebellion ; while I see more 
and more, as I gain an insight into the complicated 
relations of society, how difficult it is to determine 
the exact bearing of some rules of social morals. 

Of these none are more difficult to fix (to say 
nothing about obeying them, when they are fixed) 
than the laws of the tongue. On this branch of 
morals my attention has been peculiarly fastened, 
from “ My First Misfortune” having happened through 
ignorance and carelessness respecting it. I am not 
going to offer the results of my experience and reflec- 
tions, but to relate the event to which I refer. 

It is the lot (favourable or unfavourable) of few to 
reach the age of nineteen, without a misfortune; but 
it was mine. I was as happy, I believe, as children 
ever are. What little troubles I had were chiefly of 


62 


THE VIOLET. 


my own making ; and I was indebted to every body 
about me for a great many pleasures. My brothers 
romped with me till they went to college : my sis- 
ters, who were much older than myself, taught me 
to garden, and led me with them to the village 
school, and to the cottages, and whithersoever they 
knew I should like to accompany them: my father 
took me on his knee when he left the office for the 
drawing-room, and told me stories in my childhood, 
and held conversations with me in my youth: my 
mother — I cannot say what she did for me; all 
that I learned was from or through her, all that 
I enjoyed was under her sanction, all the allevia- 
tions of my little troubles I owed to her. Nobody 
found me intractable ; but my mother’s slightest 
wish was law. In only one instance do I remember 
having rebelled, and then not in word or deed, only 
in thought: it was because she declined inviting to 
the house a girl nearly my own age, who would, I 
thought, be a charming companion forme, and whose 
grandmother (with whom she lived) was very anxious 
that she should be received among us for a long 
visit. Why my mother’s hospitality, usually so free, 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


63 


should not be extended to Jane Mornington, at the 
hinted desire of her guardian, who was a distant 
relation of ours, I could not understand ; and, not 
understanding, was displeased. How long my dis- 
pleasure lasted, I cannot recollect ; but I do not think 
I quite got rid of it till my mother’s reasons were 
gradually disclosed by circumstances. 

In those days it was our custom to pass the sum- 
mer afternoons in the shaded bay-window which 
opened into the garden ; and there, while sitting at 
work, to hold conversations, which, however well 
they might begin, sometimes went beyond the utile, 
if not the dulce. Sometimes, when we had done 
with things in general, we dwelt a little too long on 
people in particular; and, though I believe as little 
nonsense, and less scandal, was talked than commonly 
transpires in families residing in a retired village, it 
seems to me, now, that it would have been wiser 
occasionally to proffer a book to the general reader 
of the party, or to forestall the evening’s music or 
chess, than to exhaust our subjects of conversation, 
like the child who squeezes his orange till the bitter 


64 


THE ViOLET. 


of the rind mingles with what, in its first flow, has 
no taste of bitterness. When I now see the after- 
noon shadows stretching over the little lawn, or 
when the scents of our clove-pinks are wafted in 
through that window, remembrances, not wholly 
pleasurable, flit before me, and I become aware that 
our happy family intercourse was not altogether so 
happy or so profitable as it might have been. As far 
as Jane JVlornington is involved in these remem- 
brances, they are certainly far from pleasing; for 
I can never think of her without considerable pain. 

This Jane Mornington was one of the unprofitable 
subjects of our conversation. We lamented her 
grandmother’s blindness to her faults, since there 
was no one else to take care of her. We found, by 
comparing all that we knew and all that we heard 
of her, that she was not only extremely giddy, but 
careless about truth. It was undeniable that she 
practised petty cunning occasionally ; for she herself 
betrayed this by subsequent indiscretion. She had 
made a gross misrepresentation to such a one ; she 
had deceived and offended such another ; she had 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


65 


misled or deluded her grandmother on such an 
occasion, and, not having been rebuked, would be 
encouraged to do worse another time : and as for her 
impetuosity of manner, if it did some service by be- 
traying her little sinister designs now and then, it 
did much more harm by putting people off their 
guard, and winning them by an appearance of sim- 
plicity. Her conduct towards Harriet Evans was 
enough of itself to condemn her : — to allure the 
poor girl into a desperate friendship by her frank 
condescension, and, after having accepted all her 
confidence, and influenced her to break off* an engage- 
ment nearly concluded, to discard her and betray her 
secrets — what could be worse? It was certain that 
Jane was a very dangerous person for any girl to 
associate with, and not to be trusted in any matter 
whatsoever. 

Now, how true soever all this might be, it was no 
business of ours, as Jane was not likely to fall in our 
way, and as we had no influence, direct or indirect, 
over her conduct, or her grandmother’s methods of 
domestic government. It served, however, to en- 
9 


66 


THE VIOLET. 


lighten me respecting my mother’s motives for 
having declined bringing us together ; and I rejoiced 
that I had not had, and was not likely to have, any 
acquaintance with Jane Mornington. 

When I was nineteen, I went to London, for the 
lirst time, to spend the Christmas holidays at the 
house of an aunt, who had kindly invited a young 
friend of her’s to meet me, as all her children were 
too young to be companions to me. The first fort- 
night of my visit was blissful. I was somewhat 
afraid of my aunt, it is true ; but I loved the children, 
and Isabella was exactly the girl I could make a 
friend of; — so generous in her feelings, so frank in 
her manners, so much of my own way of thinking in 
every thing. With these pleasures at home, and 
abundance of gaiety abroad, the days flew away like 
a happy dream ; and the accounts of them that I sent 
home caused no little amusement, as I afterwards 
found, in the family circle. At the end of a fortnight, 
Isabella was obliged to leave us ; but she went no 
further than the next square, whence she could come 
and see us very often, and whither I failed not to go 
every day. Our confidences were all the more 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


67 


intimate from our not being perpetually together ; 
and not even over our own fire at night had we en- 
joyed our conversations so much as now, when her 
grandfather was asleep in his easy-chair, or engaged 
in his study with his lawyer. 

On one of these occasions, Isabella told me that 
a very agreeable thing had happened since she saw 
me : — she had been brought acquainted with one of 
the pleasantest people she had ever seen ; so clever, 
so open-hearted, so like me, that she had taken to 
her at once : she believed that they were likely to 
meet very often ; and it would be the fault of neither 
if they did not, for the inclination was strong on both 
sides. Of course, I was anxious to know who this 
delightful person was, and to be allowed my share 
of the privilege of her acquaintance. It was Jane 
Mornington. 

“ Like me !” cried I : and I suppose my counte- 
nance fell ; for Isabella looked at me with astonished 
silence. In a few moments I ran over in my mind 
all I knew of Jane, — the relative position of herself, 
Isabella, and me, and the duties of friendship that I 


6S the violet. 

owed to Isabella, — and resolved, without delay, that 
I ought to warn her against the dangers of inter- 
course with one so deceitful as I believed Jane to be. 
Without waiting for encouragement, I began my 
disclosures. They were coldly received. Still I 
went on. At the first pause, Isabella tried to intro- 
duce another subject ; but it was never my way to 
leave any matter only half discussed. When I had, 
with all possible earnestness, and in stronger terms 
than I should now use in any affair short of one of 
life and death, related my facts, mingled with com- 
ments, and exhortations, and warnings, I perceived 
with consternation that Isabella was not at all moved 
in the way I wished, but very much in some other 
way for which I could not account. I pressed for an 
explanation, when Isabella merely said that she had 
frequently heard of Jane Mornington before she met 
her, and that all her prepossessions respecting her 
were of an opposite character to mine ; and that 
when she had seen more of her, which she now more 
than ever should take care to do, she should be bet- 
ter able to form an opinion for herself. 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


69 


“ You do not suppose,” said I, effectually quieted, 
“ that I wish to prevent your seeing her, and forming 
an opinion for yourself?” 

“ What is it, then, that you do wish?” 

“ To prevent your being won upon by her man- 
ner; to prevent your being involved before you are' 
aware, and betrayed and discarded as others have 
been.” 

“ I do not know what you mean by being involved ; 
and as for being discarded, that is impossible in any 
state of the case.” 

“ Isabella ! I do believe you are offended.” 

“ Your opinions of me certainly are any thing but 
complimentary. To suppose that I am to be at once 
wrought upon, that I must necessarily receive any 
impressions any one wishes to make upon me ; that 
I am to be patronised and discarded at the pleasure 
of any person whatever, that ” 

“ Oh ! no, no, no,” cried I. “ I am sure I see 
plainly enough that you do not receive any impres- 
sions one may wish to make. But you do not know 
how insinuating Jane Mornington is, how she takes 


70 THE VIOLET. 

every body at first, how impossible it is to guess 

from her manner what she really is.” 

“ I would rather you should not try to repair a 
bad compliment to me, by saying what is of much 
more consequence against somebody else.” 

“ Oh ! I wish I could make you understand me,” 
cried I. “ It is because of the very qualities I ad- 
mire most in you that I am so anxious to put you on 
your guard. You are so generous, so unsuspicious, 
so frank, that you might go further than is safe before 
you were aware. However, now you have only to 
judge for yourself.” 

“ I intend to do so,” replied Isabella, “ as I did be- 
fore I saw you this morning.” 

We were very flat for the few minutes we re- 
mained together after this ; and, on Isabella’s being 
summoned to her grandfather for a moment, I rose 
to go. Isabella did not refuse to shake hands ; but 
her farewell was cold. 

“ What have I done?” thought I, as I quitted the 
house. “ I have offended Isabella most certainly : is 
it because I have mortified her self-complacency, or 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 71 

because she thinks me a back-biter ! Am I sure, 
quite sure, that I have done no injustice to Jane 
Mornington 1” What would I have given to have 
the last half-hour blotted from her memory and my 
own ! A thousand schemes of explanation, of repa- 
ration, occurred to me ; and by the time I reached 
home, I was convinced that I had so far done wrong 
that I ought to enjoin silence on Isabella, till I could 
consider what course I must next take. I turned 
back suddenly, and was walking at my most rapid 
pace, when I met my aunt at the end of the street. 

“ My dear, where are you going 1 Do you know 
it is dinner-time 1 lam late home to-day.” 

“I know it,” said I; “but I must just speak one 
word to Isabella. I will follow you instantly.” 

“ You had better send a note,” said my aunt; but 
I was gone. 

Isabella was not alone when I entered the drawing- 
room again : a youth, whom I had never seen before, 
was standing by the mantel-piece, reading the news- 
paper, while Isabella was at the piano. Not bestow- 
ing any thought on her companion, further than a 
vague notion that his presence did not signify, as he 


72 THE VIOLET. 

was reading, and did not know what we had been 
talking about, I made my request that Isabella would 
repeat nothing that I had said till she saw me again. 

“ Come again soon, then,” said she ; “ because 
my principle is to learn, at the fountain-head, the 
truth of all such representations as you have made 
to me, and that before they have had time to make 
any deep impression on my own mind.” 

I could not stay to discuss the merits of this prin- 
ciple; but, hastily giving the reasons of my request, 
which involved the mention of names and circum- 
stances, I turned homewards again, being far from 
certain that I had not made matters worse by this 
last proceeding. 

My being late for dinner accounted to my aunt for 
the flatness of my spirits at first; but, when she 
found that I was lost in thought the whole evening, 
and that I had brightened but little by the next 
morning, she became uneasy and suspicious that 
something uncomfortable had happened, but could 
learn nothing from me further than that I was quite 
well, and had received very pleasant accounts from 
home. 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 73 

I grew more and more unhappy. I had thought 
so intensely on all the circumstances of the case, 
that I had lost the power of judging of them. I 
really could not at all decide whether I had done 
only what my friendship for Isabella required, or 
whether I had really made myself a scandal-monger; 
and I had become so confused between what I had 
said, and what I now thought 1 ought to have said, 
that, if challenged to give a report of our conversa- 
tion, I could not have done it. My best resource 
was to go to Isabella ; but she was out. I called 
again : she had not returned. Fairly tired of pon- 
dering so disagreeable a subject, I determined at 
last to drive it from my thoughts, and to leave it to 
Isabella to seek me, if she wished for a further ex- 
planation. 

She did not come during the next two days. 
When the third morning was wearing away without 
relief, I became impatient ; and, my aunt being out, 
I hastened to make one more attempt to see Isabella. 
At the. entrance of the square I met my aunt, who, 
guessing my destination, gravely advised me not to 
proceed till I had had some conversation with her. 

10 


74 the violet. 

I turned back in silence, and was in a state of in- 
describable irritation till relieved from suspense ; 
that is, till the children were dismissed after dinner. 
I then learned that Isabella had, as she was wont, 
opened her mind to her grandfather, who had taken 
upon himself to repeat the whole to my aunt, out of 
a friendly concern for my moral welfare. Isabella 
hated nothing so much as a spirit of uncharitableness 
from womoui to woman. She could not resist the 
impression my vehemence gave her that I spoke 
through jealousy ; and she was besides personally 
offended at what seemed my mean estimation of her- 
self, insomuch that she declared to her grandfather 
that she had no wish ever to see me again. 

How these words pierced through my soul ! Their 
sharpness made me comparatively careless about my 
aunt’s opinion, which was humbling enough, I saw, 
though she was not unkind. I thought it impossible 
to be more wretched than I was that night ; but I 
found myself mistaken. The next day I was terrified 
at every sound, and dreaded the appearance of any 
new face ; when suddenly a carriage stopped at the 
door, and the face which of all faces I had rather not 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 75 

have seen, presented itself. The old lady with whom 
Jane Mornington lived, had heard, by some unknown 
means, (I suppose through the stranger whose pre- 
sence I had disregarded, during my explanations with 
Isabella,) that 1 had aspersed her grandchild’s cha- 
racter : and she came to demand reparation. It was 
impossible to enter into explanations with her : it 
was impossible to disprove, or even to doubt, the his- 
tory she gave of the breaking off of Harriet Evans’s 
engagement, with which it appeared that Jane had 
really nothing to do. I did not know which way to 
turn. I was as firmly convinced as possible that my 
general estimation of Jane’s character was a right 
one ; yet I had no means of proving it : and, as I had 
been mistaken in one point, I could expect no credit 
on others. In utter despair, I wrote to my mother to 
entreat her to take me home, that I might hide my 
face in retirement, which was fitter for me than Lon- 
don. By way of obtaining present relief, rather than 
from any definite hope, I related the whole story, as 
well I could remember it: and a happy thing it was for 
me that I did so. An answer came sooner than I had 
thought one could arrive : it was as follows : — 

o 


76 


THE VIOLET. 


“ My Dear Child, — I need not say how grieved 
we are for your present distress, and how earnestly 
desirous to help you if we could. W e all agree, how- 
ever, in thinking that any interference of ours would 
only injure your cause. You have strength enough 
to extricate yourself honourably from your difficul- 
ties, if your intentions have throughout been as good 
as we are convinced they have been. I do not mean 
that you will satisfy every body ; that is too much to 
expect : and, indeed, a certain share of blame is the 
natural penalty of such imprudence as you are aware 
you have been guilty of. But if, as I am convinced, 
your statements are substantially true, you will re- 
cover Isabella’s friendship, and the esteem of your 
other friends, by acting and speaking with fearless, 
yet temperate, honesty. I shall not prescribe your 
line of conduct, for you know as well as I what is 
right ; and, indeed, much better, from being on the 
spot. Be frank, and keep up your spirits, and tem- 
per, and think not of consequences; and all will yet 
be well. 

“ I have not adverted to your wish to return home, 
because I trust and believe that the wish was uttered 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


77 


under an impulse which has long since passed away. 
I hope, my love, you will remain as long as you 
planned at first, and that your mind will soon be suf- 
ficiently at ease to allow of your enjoying the many 
pleasures within your reach. We shall be anxious 
to hear from you as soon as you may be disposed to 
write, and are obliged by the full confidence you have 
placed in us. Your father and sisters join in kind 
love to you with your affectionate mother.” 

After reading this, I felt myself equal to any thing ; 
and, under its immediate inspiration, determined upon 
a proceeding which I was afterwards very thankful 
for having been led to adopt. I demanded of Isabella 
that she should go with me to Jane Mornington, 
which she was ready and even eager to do, when 
she knew what my purpose was. When admitted 
to Jane’s presence, I requested Isabella to give an 
exact account of the whole of our conversation. Isa- 
bella did this with many blushes, but with admirable 
fidelity. 

“ Now,” said I, addressing myself to Jane Morning- 
ton, “ I acknowledge myself mistaken respecting the 
breaking off of Harriet Evans’s engagement, in which 


78 THE VIOLET. 

I am convinced you had no share. I acknowledge 
that I put other facts in the strongest light, and that 
my comments upon them were somewhat severe : and 
as to the imprudence of mentioning any of the cir- 
cumstances in the presence of a stranger, there can 
be no doubt. But here end my confessions. I now 
put it to your honour to say how far my remaining 
statements are true, and beg to remind you that your 
best method of disproving my remarks upon you is, 
to be as open as 1 am, in a matter in which the repu- 
tation of both is involved. We will give you our 
word that what passes here shall be known to no one; 
my object being merely to regain Isabella’s confi- 
dence, which will be a sufficient justification of me 
to others.” 

Jane was much struck by my method of proceeding, 
and, for a time, moved to a reciprocation of frankness: 
but her habits of equivocation soon resumed their 
power; and she disappointed and disgusted me by the 
shabbiness of some of her replies to my questions, and 
by the resentment she affected when the impulse of 
good feeling had spent itself. My purpose, however, 
was answered : Isabella understood her thoroughly, 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


79 


in a very short time ; and, as I did not wish to expose 
Jane unnecessarily, I rose to go as soon as I saw that 
my point was gained. 

“ You have disappointed me,” said I, “by the dis^ 
ingenuousness ofsome ofyourconduct to-day ; but this 
does not lessen my desire to do you justice. I wish 
you to point out the mode in which I may make repa- 
ration for the error I have acknowledged here, and 
which I am ready to acknowledge elsewhere.” 

Jane answered haughtily, that she required me to 
contradict, wherever I had made it, the statement 
which I acknowledged to be false. This was done 
easily and immediately, as the stranger youth and 
Isabella were the only people who had heard me 
speak on the subject. We could never learn from 
this youth to what extent he had spread the report i 
but, notwithstanding his assurances that he had set 
the matter right every where, I have ever since been 
subject to a heart-ache when I have thought of the 
probability that I have been the means of propaga- 
ting an injurious charge. 

Isabella offered me her entire confidence again ; 

owning that she had been hasty in attributing my 

° * ' 


80 THE VIOLET, 

warnings to jealousy. Our friendship has never since 
been interrupted. Her grandfather was quite satis- 
fied with seeing us happy together again, and asked 
me, that very day, to drink tea and play backgammon 
with him. My aunt, therefore, concluded that all 
was right, and took care to change the subject when- 
ever Jane’s guardian directed her discourse towards 
me or mine. As for myself, I avoided all means of 
knowing what Jane might say of me, and can only 
hope, that if she ever thinks of me, amidst the novelties 
of her life in India, it is with less pain than that of 
which I am conscious on every remembrance of her. 

Surely there is no exaggeration in calling this ad- 
venture a misfortune. I believe that none of the 
trials I have since undergone have harassed me so 
deeply, or so long, as the apprehension that I might 
have been a back-biter ; the overthrow of my confi- 
dence in my own discretion ; and, more than both 
these together, the self-reproach for being more af- 
fected by this event than by many in which I know 
myself to have been much more guilty. I did not 
entirely recover my gaiety till long after my return 
home ; and my impressions of my first visit to Lon- 


MY FIRST MISFORTUNE. 


81 


don are all tinged with sadness. My mother’s sole 
apprehension was that I should be made cowardly by 
this painful experience ; but against this danger, her 
influence and my temperament have prevailed. I 
am still disposed to rashness rather than caution, and 
have alarmed myself repeatedly by the earnestness 
of my expostulations with my friends. But serious 
consequences follow our indiscretions less frequently 
than we deserve ; and whether or not I have erred, I 
have never again been afflicted in the manner I have 
related. It was, of its peculiar kind, my last as well 
as My First Misfortune. 


11 


'D’MS BIIILEAQE THE ©A©!® (LAI3&B 


BY MRS, HOODIE. 

The season of gladness and flowers is returning ; 
The bright eye of day in the blue sky is burning ; 
The meadows with gold the gay crowfoot is flushing ; 
To the wind’s plaintive murmurs the clear streams 
are gushing ; 

The desolate earth her green mantle renewing, 
Now smiles like a maiden just decked for the wooing ; 
The violets, like gems, on her bosom are lying; 

’Mid the young tender blossoms the zephyr is sighing; 
The leaf from its shroud in fresh verdure is springing ; 
In the branches above me the small birds are sing- 
ing;— 

Whilst here, all the day, 

I pour my sad lay ; 

And whilst I complain, 

So tender ’s the strain, 

That my mistress looks up to rejoice in my pain. 


THE RELEASE OF THE CAGED LARK. 83 

You smile, lovely tyrant ! your light task resuming : 

For you all the flowers of the season are blooming. 

The apple-bud’s tint on your soft cheek is lying; 

The snow of your brow with the lily’s is vying; 

The ringlets of gold, round your white temples 
twining, 

Like the graceful laburnum’s long clusters are 
shining ; 

Beneath their black fringes your sweet eyes are 
beaming, 

Like the violet’s blue crest ’mid its dark foliage 
gleaming ; 

Your full, parted lips, like twin rose-buds, are blow- 
ing,— 

The deep damask rose in June’s diadem glowing ; — 
But, ah ! though more fair 
Than blossoms so rare, 

Your bosom is cold 
When my sorrows are told ; 

And your poor little songster in thraldom you hold ! 

Oh, call it not music ! when sorrow is pouring 

Her sighs to the breeze, in low accents deploring 


84 


THE VIOLET. 


The loss of that liberty — life’s dearest blessing — 
Which renders me cold to your playful caressing. 
Oh ! think of that hour, when, my free wings un- 
furling, 

The blue waves of ether around me were curling, 
My bed of heath-blossoms and clover forsaking, 

I mounted aloft when the morning was breaking, 
To the gates of the East on the fresh breezes sail- 
ing, 

Earth’s joyous ambassador, heaven’s monarch hail- 
ing! 

Must this cage bind the pinion 
That scorned earth’s dominion, 

And silence the song 
Which once floated along, 

Where the anthem of seraphs the breezes prolong 1 

Ah, no ! — you have pity : — the bright tears are 
stealing, 

(Jnsullied and warm, from the fountain of feeling ; 
With painful emotion your young heart isthrobbing£ 
Far dearer than music, to me, that low sobbing, 
Which tells that compassion your bosom is heaving, 


THE RELEASE OF THE CAGED LARK. 85 

That your spirit is moved by the voice of my griev- 
ing. 

With eyes raised to heaven, on the gay sunshine 
glancing, 

With tremulous step to my prison advancing, 

You open my dungeon, your soft hand enclosing 
The fluttering wings on your bosom reposing ; 

And now with a kiss 
You the captive dismiss, 

And bid me away 
To the regions of day, 

To pour at heaven’s portal for you one sweet lay. 


TOg ILDTOIta ©Klg[PKlgK®g©©a 


BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND. 

I knew a little cottage maid, 

An orphan from her birth ; 

And yet she might be truly called 
The happiest child on earth. 

As guileless as the gentle lambs 
That fed beneath her care, 

Her mind was like a summer stream, 
Unruffled, pure, and fair. 

’Midst all the hardships of her lot, 

Her looks were calm and meek ; 

And cheerfully the rose of health 
Was blooming on her cheek. 

The merry sports which childhood loves, 
To her were never known ; 

Yet Ellen, in her lonely hours 
Had pleasures of her own. 


THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. 

She loved her peaceful flock to lead 
To some sweet wooded hill, 

That over-hung the flowery plain 
And softly-gliding rill; 

And, couched amidst the blossomed heath, 
From that delightful spot, 

To mark the distant village spire, 

And many a well-known cot : 

Whence watched she oft the curling smoke 
In misty wreaths ascend, 

And, on the blue horizon’s verge, 

With loftier vapours blend. 

She heard a music in the sigh 
Of streams and waving trees, 

And sang her artless songs of joy 
To every passing breeze. 

She made acquaintance with the birds 
That gaily fluttered nigh ; 

And e’en the lowly insect tribes 
Were precious in her eye. 


THE VIOLET. 


She saw a glory in each cloud, 

A moral in each flower ; 

That all to her young heart proclaimed 
Their great Creator’s power. 

Nor looked the little maid in vain 
Some kindly glance to meet, — 

One lowly friend was ever near, 
Reposing at her feet : — 

A friend whose fond and generous love 
Misfortune ne’er estranged ; 

In sunshine and in storm the same, 
Through weal and wo unchanged. 

The dreary heath or barren moor, 

Or park, or pasture fair, 

Are all alike to faithful Tray, 

If Ellen is but there. 

His joys are centred all in her ; 

His world’s the lonely wild. 

Where he attends, the live-long day, 
That solitary child. 




O.ALawsjn. 




wans iFEsamMLM 9 © miwsis, 



THE F08HEMATO 

I love to gaze on the rolling wave 
In its deep resistless flow, 

Though many therein have found a grave 
’Mid the coral rocks below. 

I love to look on the dashing brine 
Whirled up in a wild commotion ; — 

All have their sports, and this is mine, 

The child of the roaring ocean. 

When the waves are calm and the tempest stilled, 
In my father’s bark I ride, 

For he will not trust his only child 
On the rude tempestuous tide. 

But when the waves run high, and he 
Is out on the stormy water, 

Oh, then, I feel ’tis sad to be 
The hardy fisher’s daughter. 

12 


90 THE VIOLET. 

When I look out o’er the wide expanse 
Of the dark and troubled sea, 

I feel that a greater power than chance, 
Must bring him back to me. 

I pray to my Father in Heaven above 
For him who is on that water, 

To bring him back in His arms of love 
To his sad and lonely daughter. 

Then I wander forth with a lightened heart 
To watch on the pebbled shore, 

But my fears still rise, if he cometh not, 
When I hear the surges roar ; — 

’Till like a speck in the evening light 
Comes the boat with its heavy loading ; 
And I, in my father’s smile so bright, 

Lose every sad foreboding. 


M. H. R. 


©©M'Q’EKlirKflEKl'u’a 

The northern part of Derbyshire is more cold than 
any other spot of England or of Europe, if not of the 
world, in the same latitude. In what is called the 
Peak, consisting of a chain of high mountains, some 
grain will never ripen, and it is not uncommon to 
see oats out and uncut as late as the month of No- 
vember. The winters are very severe, and the frost 
remains so long on the ground, that it cannot be 
broken up till the season is very far advanced : 
the consequence is, that the corn has not time to ripen, 
and, when cut down, is often left to dry in the sun, 
or be withered by the wind. 

Not far from the village of Castleton, and in the 
neighbourhood of three of the seven wonders of the 
Peak, there is a low and lonely cottage, the humble 
abode of a poor family, which has been some time sup- 
ported by the charity of those who know its many 


92 


THE VIOLET. 


sufferings, and the virtuous contentment with which 
they have been borne. The man calls himself a 
native of the Peak, and says that he was born in the 
open air, at the bottom of Mam Tor, or the Shiver- 
ing Mountain. It is supposed that he was left by 
some vagrant parents, when an infant or a youth, 
to the care of whoever might discover him, or to 
support himself as he might chance to be able. 

Up to the age of twenty, he gained his bread by 
collecting substances worth taking to the neighbour- 
ing towns to sell. He then married a clean indus- 
trious young woman, and they took their turn in 
going round the country with their basket of spars 
and stone. Five young children, within as many 
years, prevented the woman from doing much for 
their support ; but the man would have continued 
able to maintain them, had he been left in his 
favourite home, and to his own habitual course. 

Unfortunately for David Lowe, for that was the 
name given to him from the first, he had once been 
a coasting voyage, and was therefore marked out 
for impressment at a time when seamen were much 
wanted. A gang took him one moonlight night, 
while his wife was at the well, and his children were 


CONTENTMENT. 93 

in bed. He sailed first in the fleet that conveyed 
the army of Sir Ralph Abercromby to Holland ; and 
then to the West Indies, with other troops, com- 
manded by the same brave man. This was his 
last voyage. He was sent to England in ill health. 
The damps and fogs of Holland had chilled him 
almost to death, and the burning heat of the West 
Indies had nearly consumed his remaining strength ; 
but he remembered how the air of the Peak used to 
brace him, and he thought that perhaps his poor 
wife and babes still lived there : what then could 
he do better than return, and spend the rest of his 
breath where he first strangely drew it. He could 
not walk so far ; but he had a little money left ; and 
before it was quite gone, he was once more in his 
old cottage, and his wife and little ones were again 
around him. 

When he arrived, all his children were at home, 
but Sam the eldest boy. “ He will be here,” said 
his mother, “ in a little time: he is onlygone‘to his 
old employment, to get a few more pence for my 
comfort, and now for yours.” Having left the boy 
a mere child, the father was astonished that he 
could have done anything towards supporting the 


94 


THE VIOLET. 


family, or that he could now be old and strong 
enough to earn a penny. 

“ What in the world,” said David, “ can poor 
Sam do?” — You have given him space enough, at 
all events,” said his mother, “ to move and work in.” 

“ Well, I love to see boys, as well as men, at 
work,” said David. “ As I came along by the farm, 
I saw a boy on a mare, leading it and a colt from 
water. The boy seemed a good contented lad, and 
I could not help wishing he was my own.” 

The wife smiled, and said, ‘ 4 Why, David, have 
you left your senses in Holland, or do you mean to 
cast reflection on me, by pretending not to know 
your own child ? The boy you saw upon the horse 
must have been Sam himself : he has been employed 
at the farm some time, and his master only wishes 
he was older, that he might keep him on all the 
year ; but he has promised that Sam shall be at 
home when you want him, to help you gather stones, 
or show the rocks, and that at other times he shall 
have work at the farm.” 

Weak as David was, he weis now contented and 
cheerful. Even the air of the Peak was not likely 
to restore him to health, nor long to preserve his 


CONTENTMENT. 95 

life ; but he wished to breathe no other. While he 
was in Holland, he suffered a dangerous illness ; but 
was taken great care of in the house of a Dutch 
peasantof very low rank, but of very high and honour- 
able feelings. We shall best give the character of 
David’s friend, by one remarkable event of his life. 
After the soldiers of Buonaparte had subdued Hol- 
land, he went through the country, to gain a know- 
ledge of its habits and people. In some very heavy 
weather, he took shelter, with a few attendants, in 
the hut of this very peasant. When the stout 
Dutchman was told that the little man was the 
general-in-chief, he thought, and almost said, “ Is 
this the conqueror and master of my brave country 1” 
Buonaparte spoke to him with kindness, and asked 
if he could serve him. “ No, Sir,” said the peasant, 
“for then I fear I must serve you.” Pleased with 
his homely and honest answer, the general then 
said, “ Have you any daughters 1” — “ Yes,” he said, 
“ I have ; what do you want with them ?” — “I 
can provide husbands for them,” said Buonaparte. 

“ No,” said the Dutchman, “ I had rather do that 
myself.” — “ But I can place you in a better situa- 


96 


THE VIOLET. 


tion to enable you to do it,” said the general. 

“ Thank you, Sir, once for all,” replied the man ; 

“ but I am perfectly contented where I am.” 

Whether David Lowe learned his first lesson of 
contentment, or only increased this disposition, in 
the Dutchman’s hut, we cannot tell. It was impos- 
sible, however, for a thoughtful and observing man 
like him to be two or three months the patient of 
such a contented peasant, and not be bettered in 
his temper, quite as much as he was in his health. 
He had nothing to give his friend, and the Dutch- 
man would have taken nothing if he had ; but as 
David left him, he said, “ If ever our countries come 
to peace again, and I get home to the Peak, I shall 
send you something that will make you remember 
me.” — “ If it costs you nothing,” said the peasant, 
“ I shall be contented ; but not a stiver of expense 
shall you ever be at for me. The book always 
nearest my heart,” he added, pulling out a small 
New Testament from his rough bosom, “ tells me to 
learn, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be 
content.” 

As David was going on board the packet that was 


CONTENTMENT. 97 

to convey him to England, an incident occurred, 
that considerably added to the indisposition under 
which he laboured. A man was seen at a distance, 
clinging to the side of a boat half under water. 
Upon listening a moment, his cries for help could be 
distinctly heard. The persons in David’s boat, pass- 
ing with him to the vessel, began, Dutchmen like, 
debating slowly with each other whether they should 
row around to the spot at once, or go to the vessel, 
and then proceed to the man’s assistance. Enraged 
at their hesitation, David, ill as he was, plunged 
into the water, and swam quickly to the sinking 
boat. With surprising agility and strength, he fast- 
ened himself on the upper side, and getting hold of 
the helm, fixed it in a moment, and restored the boat 
to its right position. He was rewarded for his 
courage and kindness ; but no reward could compen- 
sate him for the deeper cold which that enterprise 
struck in his constitution. 

We must now attend David Lowe at his native 
and favourite Peak. So long as he was able, he 
continued to collect, from the scattered stones of the 
mountain, all that was likely to be acceptable to 
travellers, or to be saleable at the neighbouring 
13 


98 


THE VIOLET. 


towns. But this employment became too cold for 
David’s present constitution through more than half 
the year, and the heat of half the remaining part 
was still more intolerable. He was at the foot of 
Mam Tor one fine summer morning, and trembling 
with cold, he said to his boy, who was now at home 
to take care of him, “ Sam, you know what they 
call this hill, don’t you 1” — “ Yes, father, said the 
boy, “ they call it the Shivering Mountain.” — “ Ah !” 
replied Lowe, scarcely able to stand, “ it is so in- 
deed to me now : once I could go up every steep of 
it, and be as firm as the sturdiest oak at Chats- 
worth ; but now, Sam, I shiver in every part of me. 
Come and stand by me, boy, and, if you can, keep 
me from falling till I get into the plain road. 
“ But,” he exclaimed, “ I am at the Peak, and I 
am contented /” 

It may appear strange, that so worthy and well 
known a man was not employed somewhere else, in 
easier and more profitable work. This arose from 
his remarkably contented temper, which sometimes 
appeared to stand in the way of bettering his condi- 
tion. He would have been willing to manage a 
little garden, near his own cottage, and thus yield 


CONTENTMENT. 


99 


his family more comfortable support ; but the ground 
in that neighbourhood affords very few spots capable 
of being tilled by a strong man, and much less by 
one so feeble as he was. Some of the gentry around 
had offered to employ him in their gardens, or in 
their houses ; but he was not able to endure regular 
work, and he never would, he said, keep another and 
better man out of employ. The noble owner of 
Chataworth had heard of David, and told the steward 
to place him at one of the outer park gates ; but he 
said that a place among the lowest of his grace’s 
pensioners contented him, and the park gate would 
be kept better by some other poor man* 

It may be thought that the charity he received 
rendered him so comfortable, that he had no wish 
to exert himself : but it was not so. David never 
received — in fact, he never would receive — more 
than was sufficient to cover himself and family from 
the weather, and preserve them and him from want. 
When offered more, he would say, “ The Dutch- 
man’s book tells me, that, ‘ having food and raiment, 

I should be therewith content.’ ” 

One autumn morning, a party of ladies and gentle- 
men from Buxton stopped at his cottage, and wished 


100 


THE VIOLET. 


to obtain a guide to examine every part of the Shi- 
vering Mountain, and then proceed to what is called 
the “ Peak Cavern.” David knew every turn and 
bend of the latter wonderful place ; but the moun- 
tain was so often changing its form by the falling of 
its slaty substances, that he could seldom trust him- 
self to take strangers about it. Besides, the footing 
was so frequently dangerous, as well as the over- 
hanging parts of the mountain, that he was afraid 
of both the visitors and their guide being injured, if 
not killed. 

The day, however, was so remarkably balmy, 
that he felt strengthened by every breath of fresh 
air : he therefore thought he would venture for once 
to tell the strangers what he knew of these wonders 
of nature. He took Sam with him that he might 
learn as well as help. 

“ You see,” said he, “ this slaty dust : how small 
it is, and yet what a vast quantity there is of it in 
different parts ! A very little while ago, this was 
hard and solid slate. It was then part of the moun- 
tain, not exposed to the air ; but when the air met 
it, all was crumbled and powdered to this dust. If 
it could have been contented ” — this he said with 


CONTENTMENT. 


101 


some little humour, that he was sure to indulge on 
such a comfortable morning — “ if it could have 
been contented to remain as it was, it would have 
continued strong and solid ; but it chose to come 
abroad — no offence to you travelling ladies and gen- 
tlemen — it chose to come abroad, and then it be- 
came broken, and shattered, and we tread it under 
our feet.” 

** But, my good man, said one of the ladies, “ you 
confessed just now that coming abroad this morning 
has done you much good.” — “ It has, thank God,” 
said David ; “ but still, if you had not pressed me into 
this service ” — here tears fell down his withered 
cheeks, and he seemed deeply affected — “I should 
have been quite contented to stay in my cottage.” 
The manner of the poor man — his grief when he 
spoke of being pressed into the service — and the 
agitation that he felt in concluding the sentence, ex- 
cited the curiosity of the company. One of the gen- 
tlemen, especially, resolved to understand the cause 
of David’s tears, and said, “I am afraid you have 
been, at some former time, pressed into a very dif- 
ferent service.” 

While Sam showed the rest some other parts of 


102 THE VIOLET. 

the mountain, the gentleman stepped with David, 
who gave him the outline of his brief history. “ I 
was the lieutenant of the gang that took you away 
from your hut,” said the gentleman : “ I admired 
these rocks when I was here at that time, for a few 
hours only, and I determined the first opportunity 
to come again to examine them. I then did my 
duty as an officer: now will I do my duty as a man. 
My service as an officer, it appears, did you an in- 
jury ; ray service as a man shall repair the injury 
as much as possible. Here are five pounds for your 
present use, and, as your boy seems a sensible well- 
behaved lad, I will take him into my service.” 

“ I don’t know what Sam may wish to do in this 
matter,” said Lowe ; “ but I cannot take your money, 
Sir : it would seem as if I want to be paid now for 
being pressed some years ago. Besides I am quite 
contented without it. Money will do me no good, 
while all my wants are supplied.” The captain, 
as the gentleman now was, then said, “ The money 
shall not go into my purse again; you shall have 
one of the sovereigns, and the rest shall go to clothe 
your son for service, whether he serve me or not.” 
— You seem, Sir,” said David, “ as if you would 


CONTENTMENT. 103 

press Sam, as you once pressed me : do let the little 
fellow consent to go. Perhaps, if you had civilly 
asked me to serve my king and country, I might 
have been contented to do it for a time ; but I for- 
give you : your honour, I forgive you : you did your 
duty like a brave man, and f heard you tell your 
gang to treat me kindly ; and so I was contented.” 

On returning to Buxton, the officer strove to re- 
fresh 4iis memory of the man, and soon remembered 
that he had been one of the best that he had ever 
taken. He told the affair to his friends, and they 
all agreed that something should be done, at least 
for the boy, with whose good sense and activity the 
party had been greatly pleased. 

The evening of the next day, three of the party 
went to David’s cottage, and the officer asked him 
if he would let him have the boy. “ Sam, your 
honour, has said he is quite contented to remain 
where he is ; and I hope he will be the same, if you 
can persuade him to leave my service for yours.” 

The boy was taken into the captain’s service, and 
now we must follow him to Bath, where his master 
lived. The new livery made Sarn a smart-looking 
youth, and he turned out a faithful and diligent ser- 


104 


THE VIOLET. 


vant, first as a stable boy, and afterwards as footman. 
In Bath, there is a considerable number of young 
servants, called liberty boys, who meet together to 
encourage each other to become independent of 
their masters. As soon as a new servant boy makes 
his appearance, they endeavour to get him into their 
society, and, if he refuses, they render him as un- 
comfortable as possible. Samuel Lowe, as we must 
now call him, was first told that a much better place 
than Captain Romer’s could soon be had. I can’t 
help that,” said Samuel, “ I am quite contented.” 
They then endeavoured to entice him from home 
on the evenings that his master was out ; still his 
answer was, “ I am contented.” 

Captain Romer had an early opportunity of hear- 
ing that Samuel had resisted all their efforts, and the 
latter wondered who had told him. At last he sus- 
pected Mrs. Romer’s own maid, a foreign girl, whom 
she had brought from the continent a year before, 
when the captain and his lady resided there. Sa- 
muel no more wanted his master to know of his con- 
tentment at home, than to comply with the entice- 
ment of the liberty boys to rove abroad ; he there- 
fore said to her mildly, one day, — “ What do you 


CONTENTMENT. 105 

talk to master about me for ) I am contented to do 
my duty, without being talked about.” — “ That ’s 
just my father,” said the girl, who could very im- 
perfectly speak the English language. “Just your 
father !” asked Samuel, “ why, what do you mean, 
Susan !” — “ I do mean,” she said, “ my father — 
always contented — every thing.” 

Samuel now understood, and asked, “ Who is your 
father, Susan, if it is a fair question!” — “My 
father,” she said, “ is Holland man — you call Dutch- 
man — has good book — always here," pointing to 
her heart. Samuel had heard his father tell of his 
Dutch friend, but could scarcely think it possible 
that it was Susan’s father : if it be, he thought, what 
a letter shall I write to my father about it ! He 
asked her a few more questions, scarcely hoping to 
find that it was as he wished. “ Did you ever hear 
of an English sailor at your father’s house — do you 
remember one being ill there two or three months — 
can you recollect whether such a man went from 
your father’s house to a ship that was going to the 
West Indies ?” 

At that time Susan was a mere child ; but she 
thought she could remember hearing her father “ say 

14 


106 THE VIOLET. 

some things like these.” Then she put her hand to 
her forehead, and said, she “ remember drinking poor 
man’s broth.” The fact was, little Susan, at three 
years old, had often taken broth for poor David to 
drink. Samuel now began to hope that Susan’s 
father had been his father’s preserver. He put one 
more question to her — “do you remember whether 
a poor English sailor ever promised to send your fa- 
ther something]” — “Yes,” she answered, afler 
some pause, “ I remember — promise to send — then 
not send — father wish not send — not want it.” 

At that moment, the captain and Mrs. Romer 
came home, and, in a few minutes, Samuel was called 
into the parlour, “ I have heard,” said his mistress, 
“ that you have been seen with the leading liberty 
boys: is this true]” He confessed that he had ; 
“ but,” he added, “ I shall not go with them again, 
Ma’am ; I don’t like them, nor their advice ; I am 
contented at home, Ma’am.” — “ Perhaps you are, 
Samuel,” she said : “ but is not this on Susan’s ac- 
count, more than any other !” Samuel was not con- 
fused, because he had no reason : he had never spoken 
to Susan alone till this evening. Mrs. Romer’s 
suspicion of their attachment had been excited by 


CONTENTMENT. 107 

Susan’s great anxiety to prevent his going with the 
liberty boys, and had been confirmed by hearing the 
housemaid say, as she entered, that they had been 
together nearly an hour. 

Samuel requested permission to repeat their con- 
versation, and he did it with a simplicity which won 
perfect confidence from his mistress and master. “ I 
believe,” said Captain Romer, “ that your supposi- 
tion of Susan being that Dutchman’s daughter, is 
right.” — “Is it!” cried Samuel, in an ecstacy of 
joy, “ then I shall love her indeed!” — “ Stop,” said 
Mrs. R., “ I cannot spare so useful a girl, and you 
are both too young to marry.” Marriage had not 
before entered into Samuel’s thoughts : he felt a 
growing regard for Susan, before he knew who she 
was ; and now he loved her for her father’s sake. 

“ I think I heard her father say,” observed Cap- 
tain R., “ that he once had an English sailor at his 
house very ill — was that your father!” Samuel 
related all he knew of the affair, and no doubt of the 
fact remained. “ Well,” said his master, “ we shall 
go again to the Peak some day, and whenever we 
do so, Susan and you shall go with us.” — “Thank 


108 


THE VIOLET. 


you, Sir,” said Samuel; “if it be while my poor 
father lives, I shall be contented.” 

Samuel and Susan now became intimate friends. 
All that she knew of the English language had been 
taught her in Mr. Romer’s family, and Samuel 
begged to have the task of finishing her education. 
He, at the same time, gained considerable knowledge 
of Dutch; his father had taught him a few words, 
and Susan added greatly to their number. Captain 
and Mrs. Romer found them such excellent servants, 
as well as ardent lovers, that they could not possibly 
discourage their purpose, at a proper time, to become 
man and wife. 

In little more than two years, Captain Romer took 
his lady again to Buxton, and fulfilled his promise 
of taking Samuel and Susan with them. The day 
after their arrival, the captain and Samuel rode over 
to Castleton, and found David Lowe alive, but not 
likely to survive many weeks. The poor man was 
still contented with his lot : he was in no pain of 
body or mind. He had heard of Samuel’s good cha- 
racter, but not anything of Susan. “ Let me,” said 
Captain Romer, “ tell him about her.” 


CONTENTMENT. 


109 


He first asked him if he did not lodge at the 
house of a poor, but very kind Dutchman, when he 
was ill 1 “ As good a man,” he said, “ as ever was 

born ; oh ! that I could once more see him, or any 
one belongingto him !” — “ Had he any children 1” 
said Captain R. “ O yes,” replied the man, “ seve- 
ral sweet girls : one of them, dear creature, used to 
bring me the little that I was able to eat and drink. 
I think I see her now, coming into this room, as she 
used to come into that.” — “ What was her name 1” 
said Captain R. “ Let me see,” said David : “ I 
think it was Susan ; but what makes you ask me all 
this 1 and what are you crying about, Sam J I am 
contented, lad, and you are well off, and mother and 
the rest will be taken care off.” 

“ Should you know Susan, David,” said Captain 
R., “if you were now to see her 1” — “I dreamed 
about her t’other night,” said David, “ and I thought 
she was coming into the room with some broth, but 
was so tall that she was obliged to stoop ; but no 
wonder, for, let me see, it is more than fourteen 
years ago that I was there.” The old man was 
now exhausted. 


110 


THE VIOLET. 


The next day Mrs. Romer brought Susan to the 
hut. Captain R. gently told David who she was, 
and whose wife she was likely to be. David was 
now overcome with joy : he cried out, “ I am con- 
tented !” and in a few moments died in peace. 




BY ISABEL HILL. 

He ’s a very good child who will own himself wrong ; 
I mean he ’s a brave one, and sure of improving ; 

And just such a boy is the theme of my song, 
Whom, tho’ I ne’er saw him, I cannot help loving. 

When Harry was little and pretty, (he now 
Is a fine, tall, and, what’s more, a worthy young 
man,) 

He was oft’ner rewarded than punished ; but how 
Did his parents control him 1 Nay, guess, if you 
can ! 

Indulgence ne’er spoiled him ; they held him too 
dear 

To bribe him with toys, or to fright him with 
blows : 

Yet Harry had causes for hope and for fear, 

To him of far greater importance than those. 


112 


THE VIOLET. 


If steady, obedient, industrious, and mild, 

His prize was at night to sit up for Papa ; 

And if he had been two whole days a good child. 

He ’d walk in the Park with his darling Mamma ! 

But if he was naughty, as sometimes he might, 

He lost their caresses, so earnestly craved ; 

And his parents would say, “ You ’ve done wrong : 
quit our sight, 

Until you resolve to be better behaved !” 

The loss of their presence, their kindness, is pain, 
Which, e’en for worse faults, well might chastise- 
ment prove : 

Such penance can ne’er be inflicted in vain 
On hearts that, though erring, like Harry’s, still 
love ! — 

Who, feeling they had no excuse to offend, 

Guess in sorrow and fear what they ought to 
expect, 

Yet read in the eyes of their parent or friend, 
That, though forced to be just , he is loth to 


correct. 


CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 


113 


One day, as Mamma Harry’s early meal shared, 
He forgot that he risked his desert, her fond kiss, 

Forgot e’en their walk, altho’ drest and prepared, 
And, somehow, conducted himself much amiss. 

I don’t know in what way he proved such a sinner — 
If ’t was humming a tune with his lips to his cup, 

Or listlessly playing the fool with his dinner, 

Or if ’t was too eagerly eating it up ; 

Or whether ’t was sullenness, mischief, or passion 
(The friend who has told me the story ne’er 
says) ; 

Yet I can’t think sweet Harry was wrong in that 
fashion : 

I don’t know where he could have learnt such ill 
ways. 

His mother cried “ Don’t !” — “I shall don’t, if I 
like !” 

“ Obey me, Hal ! wont you 1” — “ No.” — Enter 
Papa, 

With tones that smite sharper than birchen rods 
strike : — 

“ Who dares, in this house, answer No to 
Mammal 

15 


114 


THE VIOLET. 


“ Can that be my Henry ? — I’m shocked, sir, I’m 
grieved L 

We both are too apt to give you your own way : 

If you think you can conquer Mamma, you ’re de- 
ceived : 

Sit down, and behave like a gentleman, pray !” 

But Harry, all blushes, with fast-swelling chest, 

And tears in his eyes, which he bent on the floor, 

Not daring to utter the thoughts of his breast, 
Marched off from the table, and opened the door. 

“ Come, do as you ’re bid !” Pa said ; “ give me your 
hand ! — 

No humours, I beg ; take your seat, child, d ’ye 
, hear ? — 

Still silent? — these airs, love, I don’t understand ; — 
You struggle ! — say where are you going, my 
dear?” % % 

Y 

Poor Harry, who dreaded, and knew he deserved 
To be banished, there still concientiously stood, 

And sobbed forth, at last, by contrition unnerved, 

“ I shall turn myself out of the room till I'm 
good /” 


CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 


115 


What followed 1 O Nature ! an exquisite sight : — 
“ This candour, this courage,” Papa cried with 

j°y» 

“ Proves you know you’ve been wrong, and desire 
to be right ; — 

God bless you ! — There, go kiss your mother, my 
boy !” 

And Harry, they tell me, at eighteen years old, 
(May he keep the same heart when that age he 
shall double !) 

Still knows when he ’s wrong — never waits to be 
told , 

And corrects himself now, to save others the 
trouble. 

When companions would lead him from study to 
stray, 

A 

Or he feels a return of his mad, childish mood, 
* 

He flies from temptation (for that 's the best way), 
And turns himself out of the room till he's 
good ! 




I love to think of my early days, 

Of my boyhood’s pleasant hours, 

The time when my childish sports and plays 
Engaged my youthful powers. 

I love to think of the village school, 

Where I learned my A, B, C ; 

It brings full many a merry scene 
Of childhood back to me. 

’T was there I learned to spell mamma, 

A very useful thing, 

There too I often coaxed papa, 

To come and hear us sing. 

For we had voices clear and sweet, 

And we could sing a song, 

So gaily and so merrily, 

We could the notes prolong. 


TRAINING. 


11 


Our school stood on a little hill, 

Amid a tuft of trees, 

And we could hear the soft winds sigh, 
And see them shake the leaves. 

Hard by the school a little stream 
Its rippling waters rolled, 

And thither we would oft repair, 
Before the school bell tolled. 

We often played upon its banks 
Clothed in the richest green, 

Threw in our little boats, and saw 
Them float far down the stream. 

Our teacher was a brave old soul, 

A patriot’s heart had he, 

He ’d fought in many a battle hard 
To set his country free. 

And he could show you many a scar, 
He had received in fight ; 

He counted each a glorious star, 

That shone with brilliant light. 


118 


THE VIOLET. 


In one hard battle which he fought, 

He lost a lower limb, 

His wooden leg, it showed full well, 
Where the old man had been. 

He loved his country’s hallowed ground, 
And, to his latest breath, 

Was willing in its cause to fight 
For liberty or death. 

He told us many a story, too, 

And filled our minds with war ; 

We wished to join in glorious fight 
That we might boast a scar. 

But now the trumpet’s lofty notes 
Sounded no more to arms, 

Our country and ourselves were free, 
We heard no rude alarms. 

Yet often towards the close of day, 

Just after school let out, 

We used to join in war’s array, 

And soldier-like turn out. 


TRAINING. 


119 


The captain of our little band 
Was fearless, brave, and true, 

He wore a crown upon his head 
Of paper white and new ; 

He also had a pretty plume ; 

White feathers, blue, and red 

Composed it, and they gaily waved 
Over our captain’s head. 

He carried in his “ red right hand” 
A sword of solid tin, 

And by his side there hung a sheath 
To put the weapon in. 

He also wore a woollen sash, 

As red as red could be, 

And often cried unto his men, 

“ Attention give to me.” 

A charger, too, our captain had, 

He used to ride upon ; 

His charger was another boy 
Full two feet taller grown. 


120 


THE VIOLET. 


Our captain had a rusty fork 
Fastened to either heel, 

And when the charger went too slow, 
These spurs he let him feel. 

Our captain, when he ordered “ march,” 
His men did straight obey, 

Three excellent musicians were 
In front, and led the way. 

One had an old tin coffee-pot, 

And one a powder horn, 

The other had a fiddle, made 
Of a thick stalk of corn. 

And next the banner-bearer came, 

All dressed in blue and white ; 

The banner was a handkerchief, 

A very pretty sight. 

And then came all our soldier boys 
Equipped like fighting men, 

Our muskets were of tin and wood 
And might be used again. 


TRAINING. 


121 


Our caps were very beautiful, 

Of large newspapers made, 

And pasted o’er with pictures all, 

Their beauty thus to aid. 

Our plumes were very pretty, too, 

Of feathers purely white, 

All taken from a flock of geese, 

We conquered in a fight. 

One carried, too, a wooden axe, 

For purposes well known, 

But, though it was a heavy thing, 

He uttered ne’er a groan. 

We marched around the village small, 
Various adventures had, 

And every thing we saw conspired 
To make us all feel glad. 

At length we reached the village school, 
Met our old teacher there, 

Disbanded, went unto the brook, 

Drank, and forgot all care. 

16 


122 


THE VIOLET. 


We then each hied us to our homes, 
Each other bade “good-bye,” 
And, ready for the next turn-out, 
Our soldier clothes laid by. 


J. B. L. 


7 W E 


BY MRS. MOODIE. 

“ I cannot part with that picture, Florence,” said 
Ludovico Arretti to his wife, after she had been 
urging him for some time to part with a fine paint- 
ing by Annibale Carracci. 

“It would fetch a better price than the rest,” 
said his wife, with a sigh. “ Ah, Ludovico ! when 
we want bread, it is time to suppress these fine 
feelings.” 

“ Let us trust in Providence, and all will yet be 
well.” — “ It has provided for our necessities in that 
picture,” returned Florence, “ the sale of which 
would free us from all our difficulties.” 

Ludovico folded his arms, and looked long and 
earnestly upon the picture. The tears swelled in 
his eyes. He hastily brushed them away, and said, 
in a softened tone, — “ Florence, it shall be sold : 


124 


THE VIOLET. 


I will take the necessary steps to-morrow ; and so, 
mia cara , give us something to eat.” 

They sat down in silence to their scanty meal. 
Arretti’s heart was too full to eat. After making 
several ineffectual attempts, he turned from the 
table and drew his chair to the fire. His son, an 
amiable lad of fourteen, placed his stool close to his 
father, took his hand, and looked anxiously up in 
his face. 

“You weep, papa; the prospect of selling that 
picture distresses you. Is it so much better than 
all the rest!” 

“ Yes, my boy ; but it is not alone the value of the 
picture, as a work of art, that makes me so reluctant 
to sell it. Listen to me, Carlo ; I will tell you the 
history of that painting, which is so strangely con- 
nected with that of your own family, that it cannot 
fail to interest you.” The Italian then proceeded 
in the following strain. 


My father was the son of a rich jeweller, and a 
native of Milan, and was early apprenticed to the 


THE PICTURE. 


125 


same business. Julio Arretti possessed an elegant 
mind, and a great taste for the fine arts, both of 
which he endeavoured to cultivate to the best of his 
ability — secretly, however, for Signor Arretti had 
an eye to the main chance, and like most prudent 
men, rather wished to see his son distinguished for 
his wealth than for his literary talents. Anxious to 
shine in the world, Julio pursued his studies during 
those hours which should have been devoted to sleep. 
This lasted for some years, till the young artist 
produced a picture which so elated and puffed him 
up with vanity, that he must needs exhibit it to all 
his acquaintance. His mother was delighted with 
this astonishing proof of her son’s genius ; but Signor 
Arretti, after viewing the performance for some 
time, with sovereign contempt exclaimed, — “ Is it 
of this daub you are so much enamoured 1 If I have 
not grown marvellously near-sighted I should pro- 
nounce it only worthy of being suspended over some 
petty house of entertainment by the road-side.” 

Julio was too proud of his painting, and too 
choleric, not to take an affront so pointedly levelled 
against his genius. He could not — or rather, my 


126 


THE VIOLET. 


dear boy, he would not — overcome his indignation : 
he flung off the yoke of painful obedience, abandoned 
his home, and became a pensioner upon the bounty 
of a neglectful world. Poverty and ruin were the 
result of this rash and criminal step ; for Julio never 
gained that celebrity as an artist which his talents 
deserved. Signor Arretti left his wealth to stran- 
gers ; and his son continued to toil in obscurity to 
maintain a large family of small children, of which 
I was the eldest, and inherited my father’s taste for 
polite literature. 

Julio repented of his folly, when it was too late to 
be remedied, and sighed for the possession of that 
wealth which, in the wild romance of youth, he had 
rejected with scorn. The art which fascinated him 
so much when carried on by stealth, lost much of 
its attraction when he was forced to pursue it to 
earn his daily bread. In this state of mind and feel- 
ing he was invited by a house-painter to assist him 
in colouring some apartments in the Farnese Palace ; 
and necessity compelled the young artist gladly to 
accept the offer. 

In this splendid receptacle of the works of many 


THE PICTURE. 127 

eminent painters, all Julio’s enthusiasm for the arts 
revived ; and every moment that he could steal from 
his abhorred task was spent in the picture-gallery. 
Here, lost in delightful visions of the genius of past 
ages, he formed a thousand wild dreams of future 
glory and advancement. He sighed to behold one 
of his own pictures gracing those princely walls, and, 
forgetful of his present poverty, imagined that the 
period when this ambitious wish should be gratified 
was not so very distant. There was one painting, 
however, which most engrossed his attention, and 
before which he lingered of an evening till the 
shades of twilight concealed it from his view: it 
is this identical picture on which we are now 
gazing, which realised all his ideas of harmony and 
beauty. 

The Prince of Farnese was a proud man, but a 
great lover of the arts; and walking every day 
through the gallery, he was amused by the devotion 
of the young painter, and the statute-like position in 
which, night after night, he found him before Anni- 
bale’s picture. 

“ You admire that painting, young man,” he said 


128 the violet. 

one evening, abruptly addressing the enamoured 

student. 

“ Your Excellency, I feel it !” 

The Prince smiled at his enthusiasm. “Tell me, 
Signor, what you think of this,” putting his hand at 
the same time on the head of his only son, a most 
beautiful child, whom he held against his knee with 
paternal pride and tenderness. 

Struck with the uncommon appearance of the little 
Prince, Julio cried out in an ecstacy, “ ’T is Nature’s 
master-piece !” 

“ Take him for your model, young painter ; and 
if you succeed in procuring a likeness, I will give 
you a hundred gold crowns, and the picture a place 
in this gallery.” 

Overjoyed at his unexpected good fortune, Julio 
could only sink at the Prince’s feet, and murmur in 
incoherent sounds his grateful thanks. The next 
day he was conducted by one of the Prince’s gentle- 
men to a pleasant room, which communicated with 
the garden, furnished with the needful apparatus ; 
and the lovely child was brought, and seated on a 
gold-fringed cushion before him. Anxious as Julio 


THE PICTURE. 129 

was to succeed in the work he had undertaken, the 
beauty and playfulness of the boy often diverted 
his attention from the canvas, and he laid aside the 
pencil to press him in his arms, and load him with 
caresses. By thus entering into the sports, and 
studying the character, of the little Prince, Arretti 
succeeded in obtaining the peculiar expression which 
gave the greatest charm to his face. The likeness 
was perfect ; it only wanted motion to convince the 
spectator that it lived : — there was the rosy moutli 
with all its dimpled sweetness ; the velvet cheek ; 
the deep azure eyes, laughing from beneath their 
long silken lashes; and the white temples gleaming 
like alabaster from among his golden locks. Rubens 
never drew such a head among all his cherubs — 
Rubens never had such a model. 

Julio was delighted with the work of his own 
hands: he touched, and retouched, and lingered on 
every feature, loth to part with the portrait and the 
beautiful original : the Prince was not to see the 
picture till it was completed. Arretti was busy 
giving the finishing strokes : the doors that led into 
the garden were open, and the child was playing 
17 


130 THE VIOLET, 

about the room, when the voice of the Prince was 
heard on the lawn below, calling, in playful tones, 
to his son. The child bounded down the steps of 
the terrace like a young fawn ; and, running with 
all speed towards the spot where his father stood, he 
passed too near the margin of the fountain, lost his 
balance, and was precipitated with violence into the 
spacious marble basin. A cry, a fearful cry, burst 
from the lips of the distracted father, — “ My son ! 
— my only son !” It reached the ears of Arretti — 
the next moment he was at the Prince’s side, in 
another had lifted the lovely boy out of the basin : 
but what the waters could not have effected in so 
brief a period of time, the blow against the hard 
stone had accomplished : — the beautiful heir of that 
splendid domain, the child of so many prayers, 
hopes, and promises, was already numbered with 
the dead. 

My father wept. The Prince was torn from the 
body of his son, and led from the spot in a state of 
mental abstraction. Julio packed up the painting, 
and returned to his humble home overwhelmed with 
grief. 


THE PICTURE. 131 

It was some days before the artist could summon 
sufficient resolution to look upon the picture. My 
mother wished to see it; and with a trembling hand 
my father removed the envelopes. When the 
beautiful face smiled upon him with all the reality 
of life, he sighed and turned away : we all gathered 
round the table; — exclamations of surprise and 
admiration burst from our lips. “ How lovely he 
is !” cried one : “ What a face !” said another : 
“ What eyes ! What lips !” — “ So beautiful, and 
so soon dead!” said my dear mother, wiping her 
eyes with the corner of her muslin apron : “ this is 
not the portrait of a human creature, but the face of 
an angel !” 

“ Let me, too, look at the picture,” said a deep 
touching voice, which made us all start and draw 
instinctively back. 

“ It is the Prince,” said my father, as a tall majes- 
tic man joined himself to our group. We retreated 
from the table with feelings of deep respect, occasioned 
less by the high rank of our visitor than by the mag- 
nitude of his misfortune. I was but a boy, Carlo : 
but I never shall forget the expression of that noble' 


132 THE VIOLET, 

mourner’s countenance whilst gazing upon the por- 
trait of his son. For a long time he continued to 
examine it with stillness and composure ; but 
what appeared to us calmness, was the intensity of 
grief too deep to reach the surface : at length his 
features relaxed, his lips quivered, the veins rose like 
cords upon his temples, and the big tears fell fast 
upon the canvas. 

My father motioned to us to leave the room ; but 
not a foot stirred : at length my mother led out the 
little ones, and I retreated into a corner to watch the 
close of this sad scene. The Prince, finding himself 
alone, drew near Arretti, and, grasping his hand 
firmly, said, — 

“ Signor Arretti, in that picture you have restored 
to me my son : had not Heaven decreed otherwise, 
your prompt assistance would have placed him warm 
and breathing into these arms. God has taken away 
the desire of my eyes, for I loved him too well ; but 
when I look upon this exquisite portrait, memory 
will recall the original, and I shall no longer feel 
myself a childless and widowed man. Place the pic- 
ture in my gallery, and to-morrow I will amply 


THE PICTURE. 133 

reward the artist.” — Before my father could express 
his thanks, the Prince had quitted the apartment. 

In the evening, Julio placed the portrait in the 
splendid gallery, but with feelings very different 
from those which had given rise to the ambitious 
wish of beholding one of his own works suspended 
there : though his desire was so soon gratified, there 
was no joy in the artist’s heart. 

The next morning the Prince’s house-steward 
waited upon my father, and presented him with a 
purse of a thousand gold crowns, and Annibale Car- 
racci’s picture, which had been the idol of his imagi- 
nation : at the back of the canvas these words were 
traced in the donor’s hand: — “ To Julio Arretti, as 
a slight token of gratitude for the service he vainly 
rendered to a bereaved father !” 

My father was deeply affected by this proof of the 
Prince’s esteem ; and the picture acquired a tenfold 
value from the circumstances connected with it. 
Arretti did not long enjoy the patronage of his noble 
friend : the Prince died shortly after ; and Julio, hav- 
ing, like most of his fraternity, made small provision 
for the future, and unable to obtain work in Italy, de- 


134 THE VIOLET, 

termined to try his fortune in London. He sold 
every thing he could convert into money, but this 
picture, on the exhibition of which he depended for 
support on his first arrival in England. He embarked, 
with all his family, on board a trading vessel, on the 4th 
of September : and we had a very pleasant voyage 
till within sight of our destined port, when the equi- 
noctial gales suddenly set in with unusual violence. 
A heavy storm succeeded ; and, in spite of the exer- 
tions of the crew, the vessel was wrecked off Fal- 
mouth, and the lives of the passengers saved with the 
greatest difficulty, before the ship sunk. 

We, of course, lost every thing, but fifty gold 
crowns, which my father carried about him in case 
of any accident. Thus scantily provided, we reached 
London ; and Julio procured a mean lodging for his 
family in an obscure street. The loss of the picture 
he prized so highly, cast such a damp upon my 
father’s spirits that it brought on a nervous fever ; 
and he was unable, with his pencil, to supply us 
with the necessa ries of life. He had early instructed 
my sisters and myself in the technicalities of his art ; 
and, though our pieces were merely copies from the 


THE PICTURE. 135 

masters, and consisted of heads and single figures, 
they were finished neatly, and in a manner which 
did credit to our tender years. Our father’s malady 
increased, and our small funds were nearly exhaust- 
ed ; and my sister Laura and I determined to paint 
a few chimney ornaments, and offer them for sale, 
at a moderate price, in the public streets. We soon 
produced some natural and tolerably well-painted 
figures, which Laura neatly arranged in an open 
basket ; and I daily took my stand in one of the chief 
thoroughfares. It was not long before my small 
venture attracted observation ; and I returned home 
with an empty basket and a full purse. For some 
months I continued this traffic with success, till the 
death of my father deprived me of the means of pro- 
curing materials, and reduced my poor mother to a 
state of despair. 

At this critical juncture it pleased God to put it 
into our landlady’s heart, a kind motherly woman, 
to assist us. She had, for many years, been house- 
keeper in the family of the Marquis of L , and 

was highly respected by that distinguished nobleman, 
who was a great lover and patron of the arts. 


136 


THE VIOLET. 


Mrs. Longley drew up a petition, stating, in simple 
language, our distressed condition, not forgetting to 
speak, in very high terms, of the talents of the poor 
orphans whom Providence had thrown upon her care. 
I remember standing beside the worthy woman while 
she drew up this memorial, and, as she read aloud 
every word as she composed it, thinking it the pret- 
tiest and most moving tale I had ever heard ; for I 
was not sufficiently master of the English language, 
though I could speak it pretty fluently, to be able to 
judge grammatically of any composition either in 
prose or verse. 

Mrs. Longley’s son was my Lord’s valet ; and 
through his influence the good woman easily obtained 
permission to present me, one morning, during break- 
fast, to the Marquis. Many were Mrs. Longley’s 
admonitions to me on this eventful morning, such as 
— “ Now, mind me, Ludovico, and hold up your head 
like a young gentleman, and make a nice bow at the 
door, and then walk two or three paces forward with 
a genteel air, and make another bow to my Lord, and 
then one to my Lady; and, when my Lord asks you 


THE PICTURE. 


137 


any questions, don’t stare about you, but keep your 
eyes modestly fixed upon the ground.” 

I promised obedience, took the petition, carefully 
folded up in an outer sheet of white paper, and, with 
a beating heart, followed my conductor. I believe I 
acquitted myself with tolerable ease, on my introduc- 
tion to the nobleman and his lady : and the Marquis 
received my petition very graciously, and the Mar- 
chioness gave me an encouraging smile. 

The Marquis seemed much amused by the petition ; 
and, after he had finished the perusal, he turned to 
me, and said : “ You are the son of an Italian painter: 
from what part of Italy do you cornel” 

I heard, but returned no answer : — my eyes were 
riveted upon a picture which hung over the mantel- 
piece ; nor could I pay attention to any thing else. 
“ Yes !” I exclaimed, in my native language ; “ it is 
the same — the very same — it is my father’s lost 
picture : but how came it here 1” 

The Marquis understood Italian ; and, surprised at 
the exclamation, he replied in the same language, 
“You are mistaken, my good boy: that picture, 
though it came oddly enough into my possession, is 
18 


138 THE VIOLET, 

an original painting by Annibale Carracci, which 
never could have belonged to a poor artist like your 
father.” 

“ Ah, Signor !” I replied, my eyes filling with 
tears, “ that picture was given by the Prince Farnese 
to my father for endeavouring to save the life of his 
son : the vessel in which we came to England was 
unfortunately wrecked, and the loss of that picture 
broke my father’s heart. I know not by what miracle 
it is here ; but the powers of memory must cease 
before I forget that picture.” 

The Marquis was convinced, by the earnestness of 
my manner, that there was more in my statement 
than could be gathered from a few broken sentences. 
He, therefore, requested me, while he and his lady 
took their breakfast, to relate to him all I knew about 
the picture. I instantly complied, and told him the 
same story which I have just communicated to you. 
He was much interested in the recital ; and, when I 
concluded, he ordered two of his footmen to take 
down the picture, and examine the back part of the 
canvas, to ascertain if the writing, of which I spoke, 
corresponded with my relation. Finding that it did, 


THE PICTURE. 139 

he took my hand and said, “ The picture is yours, 
Ludovico; nor will I withhold from you what is so 
justly your due. Some months ago a vessel picked 
up a flat deal box at sea, opposite an estate of mine, 
upon the coast : and the captain, being ignorant of 
the value of paintings, out of compliment, presented 
it to me.” — He paused, and, looking at me very 
attentively, said, “ Did you ever hear your father 
name any particular sum as the value of the 
picture 1” 

“ Oh !” I exclaimed, “ he would not have parted 
with it, out of his family, for untold gold. But we 
are poor — we must sell it !” 

“ 1 will manage that matter for you,” said the 
Marquis; “the picture shall be put up to public 
auction, when it will fetch its full value : so go home, 
and comfort your mother ; and I will let you know 
the result in a few days.” 

He put two guineas into my hand ; and I went 
home, so full of joy that I could only fling myself into 
my mother’s arms, exclaiming, “ I have found the 
picture !” 

“ What picture 


140 


THE VIOLET. 


“ The one we lost at sea.” 

My mother smiled and shook her head most 
incredulously ; but I soon recovered myself suffi- 
ciently to give a distinct account of all that had 

passed at L House : and her joy, if any thing, 

exceeded my own. 

“ Who will doubt, in future, the goodness of that 
gracious Providence,” she said, “ who so marvel- 
lously provides for the children of the distressed 1” 

A few days after this adventure, the kind Marquis 
called upon us in person, and put into my mother’s 
lap a draft for four hundred pounds; the sum for 
which the picture had sold. My mother would have 
sunk at his feet; but he prevented her. 

“ The picture,” he said, “ was the reward of a good 
action — r it ought to be an heir-loom in your family. 
I purchased it that I might enjoy the pleasure of 
bestowing it upon your son. The painting is in the 
next room: keep it Ludovico, for my sake, and 
believe that an English nobleman feels as much 
satisfaction as an Italian prince in rewarding honest 
merit.” 


THE PICTURE. 


141 


“ This, my dear boy, is the history of the picture,” 
said Arretti, again looking anxiously upon it. “ Do 
you wonder at my regret in parting with such a 
memorial]” 

“ Dear papa, you must not sell it !” 

“It is the path of duty, my son; whilst I am 
in debt, Carlo, I cannot honestly keep what is 
money’s worth.” 

As he finished speaking, Carlo rose to answer a 
knock at the door, and announced Colonel Grant, a 
gentleman who owed the artist a large sum of money, 
and whom he supposed to be abroad. 

“ Arretti,” said the officer, “ I am come at last to 
pay my debts ; what do I owe you for that splendid 
landscape of Tivoli I” 

“Fifty guineas,” said Arretti, his wan cheek 
flushing to crimson. 

“I suppose you thought I never meant to pay 
you,” said the gay officer. “ My uncle is just dead, 
has left me a fine fortune; and I can afford to 
encourage the arts.” He laid the draft for the 
money upon the table. “ Arretti, you must paint 
me a companion for Tivoli, and get it done as soon 


142 


THE VIOLET. 


as possible. As to Annibale Carracci, I suppose you 
don’t mean to part with that idol 1” 

“ Not whilst I can get bread without,” said the 
delighted Arretti, viewing the picture with greater 
pride than ever. 

“Well, well, Ludovico, I do not blame you,” said 
the Colonel, laughing ; “ but when you are reduced 
to starvation, you will know where to find a cus- 
tomer.” 

When the Colonel left the house, Arretti turned 
to his son with a countenance bright with hope, as 
he said, “ See, my dear boy ! Providence never 
forsakes those who are true to themselves : — the 
picture is still ours, and we have many happy days 
in store !” 


© ft] A ft A ® E 


The dance is merry to-night, I ween, 

In Gonsalvo’s hall of pride — 

Why loves not Inez the festive scene! 

Why leaves her father’s side ? 

She has gone to muse in her lonely bower — 
What scroll is on the floor ? 

Ah ! my First she does in that silent hour ; 
For she reads it o’er and o’er. 

She reads it o’er and o’er again, 

Till each dear word she knows ; 

And she tries to hide the joy in vain, 

Which her laughing eyes disclose. 

— What may that sound of footsteps mean? 

Who breaks on her retreat ? 

Ah ! my Second has not fruitless been — 

The writer is at her feet. 


144 


THE VIOLET. 


He has fondly sought her in hall and tower, 
And anxious his search has proved, 

Till now at last in her lonely bower 
He has found his own beloved. 

My tale of rapture is well nigh done — 
They have met, no more to part ; 

Nor need I tell, how my Whole she won 
O’er his young and noble heart. 


ttJreTFILE BE® (MSOK©°[XI®®E)b 

BY ISABEL HILL. 

Ah ! five-and-twenty years ago, 

How well that name I used to know ! 

I see the volume still : 

Its cover, gold and purple bright, 

Its daubs, its nonsense, yet delight 
My memory, ’gainst my will. 

Little Red Riding-Hood ! the sound 
Hath borne me back to holy ground, 
And years of stainless glee ; 

I ’m in the nursery once more, 

And choose a tale from out the store 
My sister hoards for me. 

O’er Goody Two-Shoes’ turn-up book, 
Oft mine adventurous head I shook, 
And, lisping, used to say, 


19 


146 


THE VIOLET. 


“ Rather than teach those brats, I own 
I ’d walk through fifty woods alone, 

And meet a wolf a day /” 

Then, trembling for my future years, 

Dear Mary, laughing through her tears, 
Would reason with her Bell; 

“ Which most becomes a maid,” she ’d ask, 
“ To fail in such romantic task, 

Or do plain duties well? 

“ Your favourite, though sent with speed 
To her poor grandmother, must need 
There loiter with a stranger ; 

Trust him with all her thoughts, and stay 
To gather flowerets by the way, 

Her friends, herself in danger ! 

“ No, darling ! if you can be brave, 

Be it your kind to serve and save, 

Which more is in your power, 

Upon the Goody Two-Shoes plan, 

Than by thus chattering with man, 

Who, wolf-like, may devour. 


LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD. 


147 


“ Where’er you roam make God your guide, 
And all your parents may confide 
Obediently respect : 

Be prompt on offices of love, 

Nor let the sighs of age reprove 
One moment’s wild neglect !” 

Such was my childhood’s lore. To-day 
The Sister Arts, with taste, purvey 

Spring buds from Wisdom’s bowers. 
High task to rear them for the young, 

To teach the unpolluted tongue 

The sweets of Virtue’s flowers ! 


THE @t©@K M©(UJ©E b 

I love dearly to see, 

Little children agree. 

And always perform what is right ; 
There ’s nothing to me, 

Can lovelier be, 

Or give me such perfect delight. 

Joseph Henry Artoy 
Was a dear little boy, 

His brothers were William and John; 

A sister had he, 

Called Emma was she, 

By her oft in his coach he was drawn. 

One bright summer’s day, 

Emma went out to play, 

In a garden where sweet roses bloomed ; 


THE BLOCK HOUSE. 


149 


The daisy was there, 

And lily so fair, 

And flowers the garden perfumed. 

She hoped she might find, 

Here her brothers so kind, 

Who with their loved sister would play ; 
When she found they were not, 

In that sweet garden spot, 

She turned and bent homeward her way. 

As she sauntered along, 

Chanting some pretty song, 

All under the leaf-covered trees ; 

The little birds too, 

From branch to branch flew, 

And carolled their notes on the breeze. 

She heard the sweet sound, 

And oft looked around, 

The fair little warblers to see, 

A linnet and thrush 
On a blackberry bush, 

She spied, which seemed happy as she. 


150 


THE VIOLET. 


For a moment she stopped, 

When the birds quickly hopped, 

From the bush, where they sat, to the ground, 
And in one moment more, 

Far away did they soar, 

And there could no longer be found. 

Horae she then hurried on, 

Reached the step, thereupon, 

She found her three brothers at play ; 

John with blocks well supplied 
Little Joseph, who tried 
And built houses in less than a day. 

To her brothers she said, 

“ You to find I was led 
To the garden, but there you were not ; 

The merry birds sung 
The green trees among 
And rendered enchanting the spot. 

“ For a moment 1 staid, 

And, enjoying the shade 
Of a peach tree, whose blossoms were out, 


THE BLOCK HOUSE. 


151 


I cast my eyes round 
On the trees and the ground 
And saw the birds hopping about. 

“ l am sorry that you 
Did not see the birds too, 

So happy they were and so gay ; 

Yet why should I grieve ? 

I can truly perceive, 

You ’re as gay and as happy as they. 

“ Little Joseph I see, 

He is full of his glee, 

And much his employment enjoys ; 

He is pure, little dove, 

As the white clouds above, 

And nothing his pleasure annoys.” 

“ Him we all try to please, 

And we never him tease,” 

William said to his sister most dear ; 

“ And let us all now 
Little Josey show how 
To build with the blocks he has here.” 

J. B. L. 


■u 1 g m p s @ a m © @ □ 

It would be droll if Temperance Societies which 
are now so numerous as to be almost fashionable, if 
not almost popular, were to profess the general 
object which their name denotes — to preserve men 
from violent passion, and keep them cool and calm in 
every pursuit. How we should smile at some such 
advertisement as this — “A public meeting will be 
held on an early day, to be hereafter fixed, for the 
formation of a society to produce sedateness, moder- 
ation, and patience !” Yet such are plain and obvious 
meanings of the word Temperance. But the 
societies which call themselves by this name are for 
promoting sobriety, and thus restrict the meaning of 
the word to moderate drinking, without extending 
its application to moderate eating, or moderate 
gratification of any other kind. Temperance, then, 
in the modern sense of the word, signifies soberness 


TEMPERANCE. 


153 


— freedom from intoxication — a careful and health- 
ful use of liquors, that would otherwise inflame the 
brain, and produce drunkenness. This is the sense 
in which the word is used in the present story. 

An English family, several years ago, went from 
London to South America, and resided first at Potosi, 
then at Cusco, and finally at Lima. The family 
consisted, on its leaving this kingdom, of only two 
infant children and their parents ; and it is somewhat 
remarkable, that an additional couple was born at 
each of the American cities; so that at last they 
amounted to eight, which we believe are still alive. 
The first two must now be grown to maturity; and 
the younger are nearly in regular succession of 
ages, from fourteen to four years. 

Their father went out in a subordinate office under 
the British government; but he soon obtained a 
higher, and afterwards a still higher station, till he 
became one of the consuls appointed by this country 
on its acknowledgment of the independence of the 
South American States. He had only one material 
fault, but that frequently involved him in considera- 
ble difficulty, and, but for his better qualities, would 
30 


154 THE VIOLET, 

have deprived him of his office and support. It was 
the habit of intoxication, first confined to a late hour 
in the evening, but gradually strengthening, till it 
appeared in earlier, and at length in the earliest 
hours of the day. 

For several years, while his children were few 
and young, their mother was able to conceal from 
them this bldmish of his character; but as they 
increased in number and years, she could no longer 
do so. It had been a source of grief to her before, 
but now her misery became extreme, and she saw 
nothing but ruin before them, unless some means 
could be devised to reform her husband, whom she 
tenderly loved, from this destructive vice. 

A strange and serious event occurred during their 
abode at Potosi, which, some little time afterwards, 
seemed likely to accomplish her wish. At first it 
was terribly threatening to both of them — to their 
reputation, their liberty, and even their life : but this 
danger over, it appeared likely for several weeks to 
produce the desired effect of sobering Mr. Royle’s 
disposition and constitution. They were taking an 
excursion into the country for a few days ; and at the 


TEMPERANCE. 155 

approach of the second evening 1 , they stopped the 
calash in which they travelled, near a low but rather 
handsome building. It was at the entrance of a wood, 
and appeared a respectable house of refreshment; 
they therefore made no hesitation in asking to be 
accommodated for a single night. 

Their request was answered in bad Spanish, by a 
man whom they took for the servant of the inn. He 
smiled, and invited them to a comfortable room, 
where he offered to furnish whatever they wanted. 
While they were taking some refreshment, as they 
thought in perfect safety, several drunken and 
boisterous Spaniards — rather half Spanish and half 
Peruvian — arrived at the house, and staggered 
shouting into an inner apartment. In a few minutes 
they heard a loud whispering, and some of the men 
seemed to leave the house. Mr. Royle became a 
little alarmed, and proceeded softly towards the 
apartment they had left. Looking into every corner 
of it, he saw most fearful proofs of danger. Fire- 
arms were scattered all about. Two of the men 
were completely drunk — one staggering against the 


156 the violet. 

wall, and the other lying under the table ; but both 

dressed like the well-known banditti of the country ! 

He was about to recede, when he was pushed back 
into the room by the servant, and told to remain there 
at the peril of his life. He began loudly to remon- 
strate, and then entreat: this brought Mrs. Royle to 
the spot; when another man, better dressed, took a 
rope, and, by the help of his servant, bound them 
both together, and told them they were his prisoners. 
“ We came here,” said Mr. Royle, “with no evil 
intention, but only as travellers, to obtain refresh- 
ment.” — “I will take care you do us no injury,” 
said the bandit chief ; “ but I much suspect that was 
your intention, else why did you come at all ? and 
why, when you came, did you not remain in your 
proper room 1 — Then all might have been well.” 

Taking the end of the rope that bound them in his 
hand, the chief reeled to the table, and falling into a 
chair he muttered, “ I suspect your intention was to 
poison us, for you looked very hard at this liquor. I 
must have it examined before I can liberate you ; 
and if there be poison in the cnp, you shall drink 


TEMPERANCE. 157 

up every drop of it. Here, Vasca,” he cried, “ taste 
this liquor, and tell me whether you think any drug 
has been thrown into it !” But Vasca was by this 
time lolling against the wall, as insensible as a dead 
man. 

The feelings of the innocent couple at this moment 
will not admit of description. They could scarcely 
stir without hurting each other ; and to reason with 
an outlaw more than half drunk appeared a hopeless 
task. Mr. Royle could have severed the rope with 
his penknife, but the servant stood sentinel on the 
threshold, and escape would have been impossible, 
while the effort might have been fatal. At last, the 
chief began to feel the deadening effects of the large 
draughts he had taken, and, sinking into a profound 
sleep, he dropped the rope, and left the prisoners at 
the mercy of the servant. 

Mr. Royle at first thought of seizing the man by 
the throat, and forcing a passage from the house ; but 
this was too desperate a purpose, the noise of which 
might rouse the banditti, and be fatal to every hope 
of liberty and life. A second thought led him to 
attempt conciliation and bribery. Looking at the 


158 THE VIOLET. 

man with a grateful smile, he said, “We are in your 

power ; release us from this house, and restore to us 

our calash, and you shall be rewarded by a better 

servitude in our family !” The man shook his head, 

in evident doubt of the promise and dread of the 

attempt. 

“ Are you a married man 1” asked Mr. Royle. “ I 
have been married,” the man answered, “ and deeply 
lament the loss of a virtuous wife.” 

“ Have you any children!” Mr. Royle asked. “ I 
have three fine boys,” answered the man. 

“ We have twice the number,” said Mrs. Royle, 

“ and if you feel for yours what must we feel for 
ours ! Yours have lost only their mother, but ours are 
in danger of losing both their parents. Release us, 
and you shall take care of ours, while we will 
provide for yours.” 

This appeal, uttered in a strained whisper, yet 
with great tenderness, was too much for the feelings 
of the man. A tear started in his eye : he wished to 
be in more sa e and honourable servitude : he had 
been attracted hither by habit, the excesses of which 
had conquered itself. Looking back to see if all was 


TEMPERANCE. 159 

safe, and forward to be sure that his masters were 
really insensible, he gently cut the rope, and told his 
prisoners to follow him. He then went to his box, 
and took a brace of pistols and a bag of money — 
“ These will defend us,” he whispered ; “ and this I 
have saved for my children.” — “Remove the 
calash,” said Mr. Royle, “ to some distance, and then 
let us lock the door, and walk towards it.” They did 
so, and, by the light of a full moon, they arrived safe 
at a small town called Raches, just as the people 
were opening their houses. 

The next day they took a shorter and safer road back 
to Potosi, and found no reason to repent the strange 
and sudden hiring of their new servant. “ And how 
came you, Silvas,” said Mr. Royle, “ to be the servant 
of banditti 1” — “I never should have served them,” 
answered the man, “ if it had not been for the 
accursed love of liquor; but nine weeks’ living with 
them has completely cured me.” 

“ How,” asked Mr. Royle, “ did the love of liquor 
occasion you to horde with such fellows 1” — “ They 
met me,” the man said, “at a drinking-house at 
Behan, and finding me tipsy, they persuaded me that 


160 THE VIOLET, 

much better liquor could be had at their hut ; and, 
by keeping me drunk for several days, they made me 
afraid of going back to my old master, who thinks I 
am dead, because he has not heard of me so long.” 

On further inquiry Mr. Royle discovered that he 
knew something of the old master of Silvas ; he 
therefore thought it right to send some account of his 
safety before he finally agreed to retain him. His 
place was well supplied at Vehan, and his master 
sent back a good character of him; so that he was 
engagedmost cheerfully to follow the fortunes of Mr. 
Royle, who expected soon to be raised to a higher 
post at Cusco. 

Mr. Royle had several young slaves, and Silvas 
was set over them: the entire superintendence of 
their work and wages was committed to him. They 
had been accustomed, sometimes two or three to- 
gether, to attend their master at his houses of eve- 
ning resort ; and they generally had to support him 
home, and conduct him to the door of his bedroom ; 
where they left him to the more careful charge of 
Mrs. Royle, who always sat up to receive him. His 
drunken notions afforded the slaves considerable 


TEMPERANCE. 161 

entertainment ; and though they dared not laugh in 
his presence, they laughed the more with each other 
afterwards. When the door of their own sleeping 
apartment was shut, and they ought to have been 
stretched upon their mats, they were often dancing, 
and imitating in their motions the reeling and 
hiccuping of their master, as he came from his 
evening’s revel. Their first experiments were so 
exciting, that they agreed upon the invention of an 
entirely new dance, which should receive their 
master’s name, and embrace the most laughable 
movements of his tipsy hours. 

Months had passed on in this manner before Silvas 
entered the family ; and the poor slaves, unconscious 
of evil, had opened for themselves a new source of 
delight, by as exact an imitation as possible of Mr. 
Royle’s most ridiculous attitudes. But the events 
that brought Silvas into the house, and especially his 
conversion, by the excesses of the banditti, to a 
sober course of life, induced Mr. Royle to think of 
reforming himself; and for some time he was more 
temperate than at any former period of his life. Mrs. 
Royle rejoiced beyond measure at this change, and 
21 


162 


THE VIOLET. 


became the more attached to Silvas, because he had 
been the means of effecting it. But the slaves were 
sadly disappointed : not only were they deprived of 
the opportunity they before enjoyed, of sipping a 
little of the liquor their master had left, when they 
waited for him at the casna ; but their dancing 
began to lose all its interest. They had no fresh 
movements — no new reels, and turnings, and 
tumbles, to introduce; and even those they had 
before imitated so well and so often, now lost their 
interest, because they had no longer the sanction of 
their master’s example. 

“ You are not so merry as you were when I first 
came here,” said Silvas one day to his young and 
swarthy charge. “ I hope you are not dissatisfied 
with your new master. I am not hard upon you, 
that I know of, and you shall not find me disposed to 
abridge your merriment. The submissive little fel- 
lows confessed they were not so mirthful as formerly ; 
but they were afraid to complain of it as a calamity, 
still more to murmur at Silvas, as one whom they 
suspected, at least, to have been the chief cause of it : 
for they had, in many other respects, begun to feel 


TEMPERANCE. 163 

the benefit of his mild and kind superintendence. 
Still they would not have been sorry for their master 
to return, now and then at least, to his former 
indulgence and intemperance ; and when he after- 
wards did so they said to each other — “ Now we 
are quite happy, for Silvas makes our work very 
light, and master makes us very merry when the 
work is over.” 

The immediate cause of Mr, Royle’s return to his 

► 

old evening’s pleasures, was rather remarkable: 
it would seem much more likely to produce an 
opposite effect. It occurred soon after his first 
advance, and his consequent removal from Potosi to 
Cusco. Two or three British naval officers, who 
had served on the South American coast, and become 
somewhat known in the country, were now residing 
with their young wives at Cusco, upon half-pay. 
Upon the arrival of Mr. Royle and his family in that 
place, they were anxious to be permitted to pay their 
respects to them, and appear to the natives to be upon 
terms of friendship with them. This, however, was 
discouraged — by Mr. Royle, because he was am- 
bitious of higher advancement, and felt himself 


164 the violet. 

already, as a British commissioner, above the rank of 
poor and young lieutenants, whose half-pay was hardly 
sufficient decently to maintain them — and by Mrs. 
Royle, through the fear that they would lead her 
husband back to his former habits, and tempt him 
again to spend his evenings from home. 

To be revenged for this insult upon their honour, 
the officers resolved upon annoying the commission- 
er’s family, as far as they could do it with safety to 
themselves. Among other methods of annoyance, 
they strolled out, with their wives and sisters, in the 
night, and disturbed their sleep by singing under 
their windows some songs in favour of British liberty 
and independence ; and one song especially, extolling 
the British naval service above all other professions 
and pursuits. This was repeated several times, until 
what was at first tolerated, and afterwards forgiven, 
at length became a serious disturbance, which Mr. 
Royle resolved to suppress. 

“ Silvas,” said he, “ I am weary of these songs, 
especially as I now find they are intended to insult 
me. Sleep to-night in the next room to mine, and, 
if the sailors come again, let us fire over their heads, 


TEMPERANCE. 


165 


and frighten them out of their songs if not out of their 
senses which might be as impossible as to blow 
some men’s brains out.” 

“ I understand you, Sir,” answered Silvas, “ be- 
cause these wild fellows have no senses to be fright- 
ened away, just as some men have no brains to be 
blown out.” 

“ Right, Silvas,” said Mr. Royle ; “ and that we 
may frighten the sailors and their lasses without 
hurting them, do you get the carbines ready, and, if 
you put in any thing but powder, let.it be a little 
small and harmless shot.” 

“ I have some capital powder and shot for the pur- 
pose,” replied Silvas, “ that I brought from my late 
master’s store ; and you shall for once hear its fine 
report, and see what very little mischief can be done 
by a very great explosion, and a very loud noise.” 

The plan was settled, and Mr. Royle and Silvas 
waited for the arrival of the enemy. The latter came 
about midnight, and for the first time commenced 
their noise by the most offensive song. They were 
in the middle of their loudest strains, when Mr. Royle 


166 THE VIOLET, 

showed himself in his night habiliments, more like a 
ghost than a man, at his chamber window. He began 
calling out, — “ Thieves ! Silvas ! Silvas ! Thieves !” 
and at the same moment fired just over the offenders’ 
heads. Silvas then appeared at the next window, a 
rather better-looking ghost than his master ; and, as 
the sailors and their lasses were falling or fleeing 
at his fire, he pointed his carbine, which he had not 
taken the trouble to load even with powder, towards 
one of the most noisy nearest the house, and threat- 
ened to shoot him dead upon the spot; while the dog, 
let loose for the purpose, caught him by the leg, and 
held him roaring for mercy. 

“ I say, Mr. Commissioner,” cried the chief officer, 
on meeting Mr. Royle a day or two after, “ your con- 
duct was too bad the other night : my wife has been 
ill with the fright ever since, and I don’t know what 
may be the consequence.” 

“ If the consequence be no more annoyance to me 
and my family from your bad singing,” said Mr. 
Royle, “ my object will be gained. I wish not to 
hurt a hair of your head, and, as for your wife, 


TEMPERANCE. 167 

Mrs. Royle has told me of her fright — the just re- 
ward of her imprudence : yet any alleviation that 
our house can furnish shall be available for her.” 

“ But, Sir,” said the officer, “ I must yet ask 
whether some apology for the alarm of the ladies 
ought not to be made 1 as for us sailors, we are 
strangers to fear, and have therefore received no in- 
jury.” 

“ We will talk over the matter somewhere else,” 
answered Mr. Royle; “at present I am particularly 
engaged.” 

“ At the Casna in the evening, then,” said the 
officer — “ shall we meet there, and bury all in some 
teneriffe?” 

To get the commissioner once more there was the 
favourite object of the officers, and some other fre- 
quenters of the place, who had been offended at his 
turning his back upon them. In an evil moment, 
Mr. Royle consented, and, having done so, he thought 
his honour involved in paying the dangerous place a 
single visit more. “ It will be but for once,” he said 
to Mrs. Royle, as he was endeavouring to silence her 


168 THE VIOLET, 

remonstrance, “ and you shall see me before mid- 
night, as sober as I leave you.” 

She scarcely trusted him, nor was he worthy, in 
such an affair, of being trusted. He returned an 
hour after midnight, upheld by a couple of his slaves, 
and too far gone to profit by her tenderest reproofs. 
Before sleep had sobered or left him, his presence 
was required by several important messages of office ; 
and, but for the skill and service of Silvas, great 
inconvenience to the public would have sprung from 
the intemperance of this single night. He carefully 
concealed the cause, while he strove as diligently to 
remedy the effects. 

As he applied to his anxious mistress, for the 
fourth or fifth time, to know when the commis- 
sioner would appear in his office, she said with 
tears, “ What shall we do to check this sad evil 
before it has again become confirmed?” The dis- 
creet servant would not have wounded her feelings 
by the least mention of the slaves’ rejoicing, had 
he not hoped that the circumstance might be 
brought to operate favourably upon Mr. Royle 
himself. 


TEMPERANCE. 


169 


Silvas had thought of this before. When he 
witnessed the dancing of the slaves, and particularly 
when he heard their master’s name given to a dance 
composed of his tipsy movements, he reflected, “ If 
my master were not now reformed, a sight of this 
would surely reform him.” Now, therefore, that he 
needed a second reformation, this appeared to be the 
most promising expedient for effecting it. 

“ Madam,” said Sil vas, “ could my master have seen 
the effect of his last night’s conduct upon the young 
slaves under my care, it would surely have made 
him resolve to amend.” 

“ What !” asked Mrs. Royle, “ did those poor 
creatures lament his intemperance! Then how 
must I mourn over folly and vice that render him an 
object of pity to his own slaves !” 

“I allude not to lamentation, madam,” said 
Silvas ; “ but rejoicing.” He then proceeded, at 
her request, to describe the conduct of the slaves; 
not, he said, to distress her, or to disgrace him ; 
but in the hope that he might know of the reproach, 
and that it might determine him to avoid it. 

“ Ah, Silvas !” she said, “ this is only a new 
feature of what has been too familiar to me already. 

22 


170 


THE VIOLET. 


I grieve to say that some of my own children — the 
very sons of this imprudent father, used to make 
themselves merry in the same affecting manner. In 
his former intemperate career, these streaming eyes 
beheld a dance of two of my dear boys, in which 
they strove to reel and look as their father did, when 
wine had stolen away his sense and strength. Even 
at the children’s ball, I saw most painful indications 
that they had not forgotten these additions to their 
dance. Indeed, if something be not done, my peace 
has fled for ever.” 

There was more reason for this last exclamation 
than Mrs. Royle deemed it prudent to state, even to 
a faithful servant. The last sad night had given her 
but one hour’s sleep, and that sleep had been disturbed 
by a distressing dream. She thought she heard a 
voice from England telling her to bid adieu at once 
to felicity and affection, and return to die where she 
received her birth. On hearing the voice, and before 
she could answer it, she thought she mounted in the 
air, and flew over the sea. On getting within sight 
of Dover Castle, she beheld the little god of love 
stretched upon his quiver of arrows, and floating upon 
the waves beneath her. “ He will sink and be 


TEMPERANCE. 


171 


drowned !” she cried. My affection for my husband, 
and his regard forme, will be buried in the ocean !” 
The sound of her own voice awoke her, and the im- 
pression left by the dream was most painful. 

A plan was ingeniously framed by Silvas, to ena- 
ble Mr. Royle to witness, as it were by accident, 
the use that his slaves were making of his example 
— the mirth into which they delighted to turn his in- 
temperance. When he entered the office, about 
noon, Silvas was absent, having gone to tell the 
slaves that they might amuse themselves in their 
own room the remainder of the day ; and, if they did 
it quietly, might enjoy their favourite exercise of 
dancing. 

In a few minutes he returned, and found his mas- 
ter extremely anxious about affairs, which returning 
sobriety enabled him to remember were to be ad- 
justed that morning. 

“ They are all settled, sir ; and, I hope, to your 
satisfaction,” said Silvas, laying before Mr. Royle 
papers in proof of the fact. 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Royle, “I am more than 
satisfied, Silvas ; and, as you have succeeded so ad- 


172 THE VIOLET. 

mirably, I will leave the rest of the day’s business in 
your hands.” 

“ The only inconvenience of that will be,” an- 
swered Silvas, “ that I must neglect the slaves ; but 
1 have anticipated your wishes, and have given 
them a holyday, and the poor creatures are in tran- 
sport.” 

“ Mrs. Royle tells me,” said his master, “ that they 
are harmless and obedient : I am half inclined for a 
holyday myself, and to go first and witness their 
merriment.” 

“ The duties of your office shall not suffer in your 
absence, sir,” said Silvas. “ If you condescend to pay 
attention to my charge, the least I can do is to pay 
attention to yours.” 

Mr. Royle took his lady, and the two sons to whom 
reference has been made, and proceeded towards 
the room where the slaves ate and slept. As he drew 
near the door, they were conversing over their din- 
ner about what they should do afterwards. “We 
will then have master’s dance,” said the elder slave, 
“ and see if we can make it better.” — “ He nodded 
in such a funny manner,” said another, “ and we 
must try and nod like him.” He rolled his eyes more 


TEMPERANCE. 173 

than ever,” said a third, “and that will be harder 
for us to do than any thing else.” 

Ashamed that Mrs. Royle and his sons should wit- 
ness what was about to take place, he sent them 
away ; while he beheld the dance through a crevice 
in the rush partition, behind which he could see and 
hear all that passed. The dance, with its new im- 
provements, took up nearly half an hour ; but before it 
was over, he was so completely ashamed of himself, 
that he returned to the house, a perfect convert to 
temperance.. “ That I should have exposed myself,” 
he said to Mrs. Royle, “ in this manner, to those 
poor creatures, is a reproach which breaks my heart. 
By the help of heaven, I will drink no more !” 


A Rfl S IL ® ® Y B 


BY N. MICHELL, ESQ. 

AUTHOR OF “ THE SIEGE OF CONSTANTINOPLE.” 

Thou great Supreme ! who gavest birth 
To time, and all we know and see ! 

Are not yon heavens, and this fair earth, 
Full of thy wonders and of thee 1 
Who can view nature, wild or fair, 

Nor see thy glories mirrored there 1 

When Morn unveils her smiling face, 

And hills are revelling all in light, 

And woods burst forth in song, we trace 
Thy goodness in that full delight, 
Adorning earth, as in her prime, 

And blessing man, in spite of crime, 

The tempest on its wings of gloom, 

The rising ocean’s hollow dash, 

The lowering cloud, from out whose womb, 
Mid rolling thunders, lightning’s flash, 


A MELODY. 


175 


Proclaim how awful is thy power, 

Who rul’st the terrors of that hour. 

At daylight’s close, when, soft and still, 
The dew refreshes flower and tree, 

And sweetly smiles the gold-tipt hill, 

And man and beast from toil are free, 
And in her covert sighs the dove ; 

That scene of beauty speaks thy love. 

The blue, eternal vault of night, 

The thousand rolling worlds on high, 
That awe, yet charm the wondering sight, 
All emblem thy immensity. 

Who can view nature, wild or fair, 

Nor see thy glories mirrored there ? 




•O’ M g I? A W N. 

Lauretta was a pretty child, 

Her parents called her “ Love,” 

For she was innocent and mild, 

And gentle as a dove. 

Her father had a country seat, 

A very pleasant spot, 

Adorned with many an arbour green, 
And many a cooling grot. 

In summer’s bright and sunny hours, 
Her sire resided there, 

His Love he always took with him, 
To breathe the balmy air. 

Lauretta was delighted much 
With such a lovely home ; 

Her parents never slighted her, 
When she abroad would roam. 


THE FAWN. 


177 


She loved to run about the wood, 

And play among the bowers, 

And many a time she brought mamma 
A bunch of wild wood flowers. 

One morn of May, Love and mamma 
Resolved to take a walk ; 

That day completed her sixth year; 

Her birth-day was her talk. 

And in her walk she saw some flowers 
Of many a different hue ; 

While some were white, and some were red, 
Others were simply blue. 

“ See,” cried Lauretta, “ see, mamma,” 
Those flow’rets fresh and fair, 

I ’ll pick a bunch for you and pa, 

From those full bushes there.” 

“ You shall, my love,” said her mamma, 

“ Obtain a bunch for me, 

And one, too, for your dear papa, 

And also one for thee.” 

23 


178 


THE VIOLET. 


“ I, too, mamma, will make a wreath,” 
The sweet Lauretta said, 

“ And visit pa within the bower, 

With it upon my head.” 

She made her, then, a wreath of flowers, 
And gathered bunches three, 

And hastened homeward with mamma, 
With heart both light and free. 

She found her sire within a bower, 
There waiting for his child ; 

He saw, and thus accosted her, 

In accents soft and mild, — 

“ Where have you been, Lauretta, love 1 
Walking among the bowers'? 

How came that wreath upon your head, 
And whence those lovely flowers 1” 

Lauretta ran to her papa, 

A.nd thus to him replied, 

“ Mamma and I both walking were 
Down by the greenwood’s side ; 


THE FAWN. 


“ And there I saw these pretty flowers ; 

I thought I ’d get a few, 

And make a rose- wreath for myself, 

And bring a bunch to you.” 

“ Now, since I ’ve brought so large a bunch, 
Accept it of your child ; 

I ’ve Iris, and Forget-me-not, 

And Jasmine gentle, mild.” 

Her father took the bunch she gave, 

A smile rose in his eye, 

She pointed to a violet 
Of nature’s richest dye. 

Said he, “ Love you remembered me, 

I will not you forget, 

But on your birth-day you shall have 
Some pretty little pet.” 

“ Papa,” she said, “ this is the day 
That makes me six years old, 

To day then let me have a pet 
Such as you just have told.” 


180 


THE VIOLET. 


Her sire replied, “ you shall, ray Love, 

See yonder on the lawn, 

What is it that is skipping there 1” 

She said, “ a pretty fawn.” 

“ That fawn is yours, my child,” he said, 

“ Take it, papa says so, 

And keep it in some pleasant spot, 

Within the wood below.” 

“The fawn,” she cried, “shall that be mine, 
Oh ! pretty, gentle thing ! 

I ’ll keep it pa in yonder wood, 

Where all the birds now sing. 

“I ’ll keep it in a lovely spot ; 

A cooling stream near by, 

Shall well supply my little fawn 
With water when ’t is dry.” 

Her father placed Lauretta’s fawn, 

Lauretta showed him where, 

And to it oft at morning’s dawn, 

Lauretta would repair. 


THE FAWN. 


181 


She gave it every morn and noon, 
And at the close of day, 

Such food as fawns are used to take, 
And often saw it play. 

She carried milk, all sweet and new, 
In a small milk-maid’s pail ; 

To take this cheap, but simple fare, 
Her fawn did never fail. 

One morn she got some dainties nice, 
And cakes both fine and rare, 

She thought to please her little pet 
With such delicious fare. 

And then she put her bonnet on, 

And hastened o’er the lawn, 

To take some milk and dainty things 
Unto her little fawn. 

When first her little fawn she spied, 
By the cool stream it stood, 

And instantly to her it ran 
To get its morning food. 


182 


THE VIOLET. 


Lauretta gave it first the milk 
Which in the pail she brought, 

And after that those dainty things, 

So very good, she thought. 

But of her cakes and dainty things 
Her fawn would not partake, 

And then the little maid began 
Thus to expostulate : — 

“ My lovely, little sportive fawn ! 
These cakes I brought for thee ; 

Mamma, papa, and I them eat 
At morn and with our tea. 

“ I ’m sure that they are very good, 
Take one, my pet, and try ; 

Oh ! do not be so obstinate, 

Nor turn from them thine eye.” 

The fawn, moved by Lauretta’s talk, 
Tasted the danties rare, 

And very soon the little maid 
Had others to prepare. 


THE FAWN. 

Thus sweet Lauretta fed her fawn, 
With it had many a play ; 

But when to town again she came, 
Her pet she gave away. 


183 


. B. L. 


June, 1841. 


a rca a a m \l s go e © © 


Our tale tells chiefly of one singular youth, and 
of the events of his mirthful and somewhat mis- 
chievous life, from about the sixth to his sixteenth 
year. He was an orphan, having lost his parents 
within a few months of each other, and just before 
his sixth birth-day arrived. They were poor, but 
respectable, and he was their only child. Some 
kind relations took immediate care of him, and con- 
tinued him in a school in Yorkshire, where his father 
had placed him a year before, on the agreement that 
he should be clothed, and fed, and taught, for eigh- 
teen pounds per annum. Although they had families 
to support with slender means, they might not only 
have been willing to continue this kind assistance to 
him, but also to place him apprentice at a proper 
age, if not make some future provision for his settle- 
ment in the business it might be proper to teach him. 

This, however, was soon rendered unnecessary by 


AMIABLENESS. 


185 


the unexpected attention he received from a family 
in the neighbourhood of the school, and their gene- 
rous adoption of him as their own child. The inci- 
dent that first occasioned them to notice him, was 
one of those trifling events which sometimes give a 
surprising turn to the fortunes of children, as well 
as grown persons, and might be described in the 
poet’s words, as the — 

“ Tide in his affairs, 

Which, taken at the flood, led on to fortune.” 

Little Gayly — the name that his father gave him 
in remembrance and respect of a beloved uncle — 
was fond of all the innocent amusements of boys in 
early life, and, among the rest, the oyster grotto 
was a very favourite object. He selected the best 
Whitby shells, cleaned them to the purest condition, 
and then arranged them with an art much superior 
to any thing that the common begging boys of the 
town had ever exercised. His object was ingenious 
amusement, and not charity or profit; and he built 
his grottoes not in the public street, but in the cor- 
ner of a private meadow connected with the play- 
ground : yet the boys, jealous of his superior skill, 
24 


1S6 THE VIOLET. 

would often have domolished his work, and perhaps 
done him personal injury, if his schoolfellows had 
not made it known that they would at all hazards 
defend him. 

“ I ’ll be revenged on my persecutors,” he said 
one day to the usher, who had hinted that he had 
better build no more grottoes, because they excited 
the rage of the town boys. The usher knew that 
revenge in Gayly’s lips meant nothing wrong, and 
therefore waited to see how he would accomplish 
his purpose. It was thus. He improved and illu- 
minated his grotto, and advertised admission to it, 
on a certain evening, at a penny a-head, for the bene- 
fit of all the poor boy's grottoes in the town ! Not a 
hand nor a voice was now raised against him. His 
grotto was visited by more than a hundred persons, 
and the money, to a farthing, was afterwards divided 
among all the boys that had built grottoes in the 
town within the same week. 

Among the company, a chief family in the neigh- 
bourhood was struck with the strange kindness of 
the youth, and went to see the humble exhibition. 
As little Gayly welcomed them to the scene, they 
were still more struck with his easy and humorous 


AMIABLENESS. 


187 


behaviour ; and in addition to the trifling price of 
their entrance, half-a-crown was thrust into the 
pocket of his trousers, wrapped in a paper, inscribed 
— “ for yourself.” 

“I have no money about me,” said the youth, 
thinking, as the gentleman put his hand into the 
pocket, he was playfully searching to know how 
much he had taken. “I appointed a treasurer, that 
all might be fair, and the boys may have every half- 
penny that is taken.” 

“Every thing but this, that I have put into your 
pocket, which you have not taken , but have had 
thrust upon you,” said the gentleman, “ may go to 
the boys.” “ Then you must pay my treasurer, too, 
for your admission,” said Gayly : “ else the boys will 
be losers by your kindness to me.” 

This was the point in the youth’s behaviour that 
struck the family, and determined them to know some- 
thing more of him. A day or two afterwards, there- 
fore, a message arrived at the school, that Master 
and Miss Morin, by their Aunt Birdfall’s permission, 
begged the master would allow the little boy, whose 
grotto they had visited the other evening, to spend 
the day with them at “ the Elms.” The servant 


188 


THE VIOLET. 


waited with a pony, while Gayly was fitting out for 
the visit ; and he rode through the town in triumph, 
just as the boys were coming out of school. 

“Gayly for ever!” was shouted at every step, 
and such was the enthusiasm of the urchins in his 
favour, that they seemed to care nothing about their 
dinner; but attended him to the town’s end, and 
would have done so to “ the Elms,” had he not pro- 
mised them another benefit , if they would peaceably 
go home. “ If you had been in a carriage,” they 
cried out, “ we would have taken out the horses, 
and drawn you all the way, and we ’ll now see if we 
can’t fetch you home in a proper manner.” 

When the youth arrived at Mrs. Birdfall’s man- 
sion, he felt at first too much confounded by the 
splendour of things around him, to behave with per- 
fect ease, or to feel even comfortable in his own 
mind ; but as he became encouraged by a most ami- 
able and cheerful family, he gradually acquired self- 
possession, and soon felt himself at home ; so much 
so, that he began to fear a return to school would 
be very unwelcome. 

It is not often that boys so young, or that boys of 
any age, look beyond the present hour, and suffer 


AMIABLENESS. 


189 


the enjoyments of that to be spoiled by any appre- 
hension of the future ; but there was a forethought 
about this youth not often cherished by persons of 
mature age and great experience. At the same 
time, he was an aspiring lad, ambitious of distinction 
beyond youths of much greater age ; while his ami- 
able temper never allowed him to take advantage of 
any opportunity of raising himself that would be 
likely to injure or even to mortify others. 

The family that had now strangely begun to notice 
him, consisted of an elderly lady, her nephew, and 
two nieces, the children of a younger sister, who 
had married a superior officer in the army of India, 
and was now with her husband in that country. Mrs. 
Bird fall was a lady of the old school, retaining the 
fashion of dress fifty years ago, and withal fond of 
antique specimens of furniture, pictures, plate, and 
china. It v/as the description of Gayly’s skill in 
building his exhibition grotto, that gained her con- 
sent to his being sent for to her house. 

She was a very kind and affable woman to all who 
fell in with her whims and fancies ; but she was 
given to sudden bursts of violent passion, especially 
when she was offended in matters relating to her 


190 THE VIOLET. 

favourite antiquarian pursuits. Her nephew and 
nieces bore with her peculiarities, conscious of their 
dependence upon her, and in patient expectation of 
her large fortune, at last, to reward them. At the 
same time, they were rendered upon the whole com- 
fortable under her roof, and often made happy by 
her bursts of generosity, which were, to say the 
least, quite as frequent as any symptoms of unkind 
and unruly temper. 

The behaviour of the youth during dinner, and 
while the dessert was upon the table, remarkably 
pleased her. He was careful to take nothing but 
what was proper, and to avoid all appearance of 
greediness and excess, while the choicest dainties 
were before him. In fact, he became such a favourite 
in a few hours, that the old lady determined, con- 
trary to her usual custom, to take her coffee in the 
parlour rather than in her own room. During this 
meal the youth became depressed, even to shedding 
tears. He had felt himself so warmly delighted 
with all that he had heard, and seen, and tasted, 
that he could not endure the thought of the hour 
when he must return to school. 

“My dear boy,” said Miss Morin, “ what is the 


AMIABLENESS. 


191 


matter 7 You begin to discredit your name, and to 
change your nature ! you are no longer little Gayly, 
but little gloomy ! you seem to think you are stand- 
ing to beg for the support of an oyster grotto, in- 
stead of sitting to coffee in the parlour of Aunt 
Birdfall !” 

The youth then fairly burst into tears, and was 
about to leave the room ; when Mrs. Birdfall stopped 
him, and insisted upon knowing why he was tired 
of being with them, adding, that if he wished, he 
should be taken back to school immediately. This 
completed his sorrow, and, when his sobs would 
allow, he said — “ Oh, no! let me have one more 
hour in this happy place ; it is because I must leave 
it that I am unhappy.” He repeated, with a strong 
emphasis on the turning word, “ It is because I must 
leave that I am so unhappy.” 

Mrs. Birdfall was given to the most sudden pur- 
poses in every matter in which her feelings were 
interested. It was a momentary impulse in favour 
of her nieces and nephew that had determined her 
to admit them to dwell with her, and to settle her 
fortune upon them ; and now, under the influence of 


192 THE VIOLET. 

an emotion in favour of little Gayly, equally strong, 
she said to him, — “ You shall not leave us !” 

“ But I must leave you, lady,” said the youth, 
looking at her with calm astonishment. Then, re- 
peating this assurance, as he had done the former, 
more emphatically, he said, — “I must leave ,you, 
though I am very sorry for it.” 

“ Why must you leave us, little boy 1” asked Mrs. 
Birdfall, imitating his solemn and emphatic manner, 
in his own mild tone of voice. “ Suppose I say you 
must not , who is then to decide between us 1” 

“ My master, lady,” said the youth ; “ I don’t 
know any body else ; I have no father nor mother, 
no brother nor sister.” 

This was uttered with such tenderness of grief, 
and such a piteous look of hope upon his new friends, 
that the old lady instantly exclaimed, — “ Then I 
will be your mother !” — “ And I will be your 
brother,” said Mr. Morin. “ And we will be your 
sisters,” said the young ladies. 

Upon hearing these assurances, the youth stood 
silent and motionless for some minutes, not knowing 
whether to believe or doubt them. But all fear of 


AMIABLENESS. 


193 


trifling with his feelings was prevented, by Mrs. 
Birdfall calling the servant that fetched him from 
school, and commanding him to go and request the 
master to allow him to remain at “ the Elms” a 
night or two. The servant left the house ; but in a 
few miuutes returned, and told his mistress that 
above a dozen boys were at the gate, with a chair 
fixed on poles, and several flags, intending to carry 
Master Gayly home upon their shoulders in grand 
procession. 

At first Mrs. Birdfall thought of allowing the 
youth to be taken to the school, and brought back 
again to her house, in this manner, but this purpose 
was soon given up, because it would keep him out 
too late, and was not likely to be pleasant to him, 
however it might be so to the boys. She therefore 
ordered some cakes and money to be given to them 
for their trouble ; and then sent, by the eldest of 
them, a note to the master, containing the message 
she had given to her servant. 

The next morning a circumstance occurred that 
at first threatened to embroil him with his new 
patroness, but at length tended to confirm her at- 
tachment to him; while it also won for him the 
25 


194 


THE VIOLET. 


warmer attachment of her young relations, and pre- 
vented any little jealousy they might have begun to 
feel at a strange child being so suddenly added to 
the family. 

Before Mrs. Birdfall came down to breakfast, her 
young niece went into the music-room, to sit down 
to her morning exercise at the piano ; but, on passing 
a large china jar that stood near the door, she touched 
it with her elbow, threw it from the marble slab to 
the carpet, and broke it into three or four pieces. 
Little Gayly had followed more slowly, and entered 
the room just as the mischief was done. In a 
minute, Mrs. Birdfall, who heard the crash, came 
down stairs, and saw the jar broken on the floor, and 
her little terrified niece hiding her face on the back 
of one of the chairs. 

The rage of the old lady was greater than usual : 
she rushed towards the weeping offender as though 
she would reduce her to the condition of the jar ; 
but the youth instantly placed himself between them ; 
and while he held one hand as though he would 
defend his new sister from punishment, he lifted up 
the other as if imploring mercy, or defending him- 
self. The storm now seemed ready to burst upon 


AMIABLENESS. 


195 


the head of the interceding youth, and, in the whirl- 
wind of her passion, Mrs. Birdfall did not seem 
careful or capable of distinguishing between the 
innocent and the guilty. 

“Suppose I did it, lady,” he said ; “ then let me be 
punished. Stop here a moment, and know who did 
it, before you do any thing to dear Minette ; and if 
she did it, let me be punished for her. Perhaps I 
made her go into the room too fast, and then it was 
I that broke the jar !” 

But these sentences did not calm the fury of Mrs. 
Birdfall. And then the youth said in a louder, but 
equally affectionate tone of voice, — “Lady, lady, 
don’t be distressed ; I ’ll mend the jar — my master 
knows what to give me, and will tell me how to 
fasten the pieces together. Let us see you well 
again.” 

At this Mrs. Birdfall became a little cooled — and 
perhaps a little ashamed, that she should thus lay 
herself open to the reproof of a child. At last Minette, 
encouraged by the success of Gayly’s intercession, 
sunk from the chair on her knees before her aunt, 
and implored her to let him try and mend the jar. 
Then, taking it up, she said — “ Oh, aunt ! it is the 


196 


THE VIOLET. 


mended one, and is broken only where it was mended 
before ; the pieces can easily be put together again 
in a better manner.” 

This was sufficient: the servant had displaced the 
two jars; and Mrs. Birdfall was still further attached 
to the youth, now she found that he understood the 
art of cementing broken china. A man was des- 
patched for the cement, and soon after breakfast the 
jar was in its proper place, quite as whole and hand- 
some as before. 

In the garden of “ the Elms” was a tree, exceed- 
ingly like the famous Banian-tree of India, except 
that its falling branches trailed on the grass, instead 
of rooting themselves in the ground. An ancestor 
of Mr. Birdfall planted it nearly one hundred and 
fifty years ago, and it now formed an object of great 
beauty to the rural part of the estate. It had 
always gone by the name of the Banian, without 
the addition of tree ; which, in conversation with 
strangers, had given rise to many laughable mis- 
takes. 

One of these mistakes occurred this morning. 
Gayly knew nothing of the tree, and was ignorant 
that any tree existed bearing the name. After Mr. 


AMIABLENESS. 


197 


Morin had heard his younger sister repeat her morn- 
ing lessons, he looked at the youth, and asked if 
he had a lesson ready! “No, Sir,” said Gayly, 
“ I could not learn any this morning ; but, if you 
please, I can tell you something of the people 
you speak about so much.” Without inquiring 
what people the child alluded to, he was told to 
go on. 

Standing erect in one of his best postures, and 
giving the sweetest expression to his amiable 
features, he said — “ There are two sorts of them : 
the first sort are some of the subjects of the Great 
Mogul, who never kill any animals, nor eat their 
flesh when any body else kills them, because they 
think that the souls of men and women when they 
die, go into the animals’ bodies. They are a very 
clean people, too, because they wash themselves 
much oftener than others in that country. If they 
touch other people, or are touched by them, they 
directly wash themselves, because they think they 
have been defiled.” 

The family smiled at the artless simplicity of the 
youth, and Mr. Morin, at least, soon saw his mistake ; 


198 


THE VIOLET. 


but they requested him to tell them about the other 
sort of people he alluded to. 

“Let me remember,” he said: “they are the 
shudderys of India — I mean the people that buy 
and sell ; and they call them a caste , a different caste 
from the Bramins, and the soldiers, and the working 
people. I love the shudderys better than the other 
castes, as they call them, because their name signifies 
innocent and harmless, and I find they are so, as well 
as are called so : if I lived in India, I would be a 
shuddery” 

The family now laughed outright, and Mr. Morin 
asked the youth when he had ever heard them talk 
about a shuddery V 1 — “ Oh no,” answered the child, 
“you did not say a shuddery; but you often speak of 
a banian , and that you know is all the same.” Every 
one now recollected speaking sometimes of the tree 
under that name, which the simple-hearted yet 
observing youth understood to be the people. 

“ You shall go to India, and be a shuddery, when 
you are sufficiently grown and taught,” said Mrs. 
Birdfall. “Shall 11” asked the youth, with eager- 
ness ; “ how glad I am to hear you say that, lady !” 


AMIABLENESS. 


199 


he added. “ I mean,” said Mrs. Birdfall, “that you 
shall be a shuddery in your occupation, as you will 
undoubtedly be in your temper and behaviour ; but 
you cannot be one in your nature, because a native 
English boy can never become a banian of India.” 

Every hour increased the attachment of the family 
to this amiable youth. Mrs. Birdfall very soon 
obtained the consent of his relation to allow her to 
adopt him, and send him at a proper age to India. 
She then fully compensated the master for the loss 
of him as a soholar, by recommending two or three 
in his stead. At first, Mr. Morin, who was perfectly 
at leisure, and fond of tuition, took him under his 
care. He found no difficulty in this task. Without 
any striking genius, or any remarkable strength of 
mind, the youth had as great an aptness to learn, as 
his kind instructor had to teach. Books of every 
kind were also at hand ; and books far more adapted 
for an inquiring youth, than the generality of those 
used in schools. Maps, and portraits, and views of 
various kinds, also abounded at “ the Elms,” and 
rendered the new tasks which Gayly had before him 
perfect pleasures and idols. 

As soon as the winter was over, and whenever the 


200 THE VIOLET. 

weather allowed, the youth begged permission to read 
and study under the shade of the beautiful banian ; to 
which, he would have it, he was so much indebted for 
all his India prospects and hopes. “ My good patro- 
ness,” he would often say, “ would have done well 
for me, I am sure, if I had never spoken of the 
shudderys ; but now I am to go among them, and, as 
far as I can, I am to be one of them ; and all this is 
owing to the tree. The great Mr. Birdfall, when he 
brought that tree from India so long ago, little thought 
that it would be the means of taking me to that 
country. I think he must have belonged to the 
shudderys. What a fine English representation is 
that tree of those harmless India people !” 

In the course of the following summer, Mr. Morin 
contrived that Gayly should gratify his aunt yet 
further by the erection of a structure in which she 
would much delight, and that would bring into action 
the talent that first brought the youth under their 
notice. To accomplish this purpose, he first obtained 
permission of his aunt to close up one of the principal 
walks, for the sake of a necessary improvement at 
the farther end. He then ordered a sufficient quantity 
of all the varieties of stones, and shells, and moss, 


AMIABLENESS, 201 

that the neighbourhood could furnish. Next he drew 
and coloured the plan of a novel grotto, and, placing 
it before Gayly, he asked him whether he thought, 
if he had the proper materials, he could build such a 
place at the farther end of the enclosed walk 1 The 
youth shed tears of joy at the question, and instantly 
said — “ Oh, Sir ! when you kindly took me from 
school, I told the boys to divide all my shells between 
them — it was all I had to give them to keep for my 
sake. I had collected so many, and such nice ones, 
that now I begin to be sorry : they would be safer 
stuck in your new grotto ; yet I cannot ask for them 
again.” 

“ But I can,” said Mr. Morin, “and you shall have 
them all back : I will buy them of the boys, and 
money will please them better than shells.” 

“But books, Sir, will do them more good than 
money,” said Gayly, “ and you have so many, that 
you could easily spare some.” The hint was taken, 
and the boys were amply repaid for the shells, which 
they had carefully preserved, by the present to each 
of a very handsome new book. 

The grotto was now begun, and made such rapid 
progress, that by Midsummer Day, Mrs. Birdfall’s 
26 


202 


THE VIOLET. 


birthday, it was fit to be opened. The old lady, on 
that day, had been accustomed to take all the meals 
with her family ; and she said one evening, as the 
day approached, “ I shall breakfast with you next 
Tuesday, when I shall be sixty-six years old’" — 
little thinking the meal would be taken in a new 
room of a favourite sort and structure. 

The early morning of the day was bright and 
balmy as could be desired; and when Mrs. Birdfall 
came down, and blessed her young folks, she said, 
“We will now go to the breakfast-room without 
farther delay.” — “ It will give you an appetite for 
breakfast, to take one little walk in the grove this 
beautiful morning,” said her elder niece, offering 
her arm — “ the flowers are unusually fragrant, and 
the birds are enchanting in their movements and 
melody. Besides, my brother and sister are there, 
not doubting that I should prevail upon you to go, 
too.” 

After a slight hesitation, Mrs. Birdfall consented, 
and was met at the entrance of the walk by her 
nephew and younger niece. Gayly was waiting at 
the grotto, which he had contrived to conceal by 
what he called a bush curtain. As the party walked 


AMIABLENESS. 


203 


down the grove, Mrs. Birdfall said, “ Well, I am 
glad you have opened this walk again ; but I don’t 
see what improvement you have made at the farther 
end.” 

“ You are not near enough yet, dear aunt,” said 
Miss Morin. They drew nearer, and nearer still ; 
when, at a sign from Mr. Morin, Gayly in a moment 
drew back his bush curtain, and the grotto appeared 
before the astonished lady in all its novel beauty, 
with a sumptuous breakfast spread on the rustic 
table in the centre, and one of the favourite jars, 
filled with the most fragrant flowers, at either end. 

After Mrs. Birdfall had recovered herself from 
almost overpowering surprise, she was led by her 
nephew and elder niece to the central seat ; and, 
when she had sat down, she asked, “ Where are the 
servants 1” 

“ Here is the only servant who must be suffered 
to wait upon you, Madam, this morning,” said Gayly, 
placing himself in one of his finest attitudes in front 
of the table. Let the builder of the grotto have the 
honour of attending you alone on this day, at least 
on this morning ; and allow his first service to be pre- 
senting you with this copy of the inscription intended 


204 THE VIOLET. 

to be placed over the entrance ; but, your birthday 
coming so soon — much too soon every year — we 
had not time to get it engraved and fixed.” 

“ The best speech for a waiter I have heard these 
sixty-six years,” said Mrs. Birdfall ; “and, to prove 
my sense of its goodness, it shall produce its effect 

— that is, the builder of this sweet place shall be 
allowed to wait on me ; but my adopted son must 
certainly breakfast with me.” 

“ I can do both, Madam,” said Gayly, “ by your 
kind permission.” The fact was, little waiting was 
necessary : every thing was prepared in the most 
perfect manner, and such a breakfast, the old lady 
declared, she had never enjoyed before. “ The only 
apprehension I feel,” she said, “ is about those jars.” 

— “They are safe, Madam,” said Gayly; “I have 
firmly cemented them to the table.” 

Some surprise may be felt that Gayly was not 
viewed by the Morins with jealousy rather than 
affection. One cause was, the assurance that Mrs. 
Birdfall had given them, that the entire expense of 
his education and settlement in life should be pro- 
vided for without diminishing their fortunes at her 
death ; and another was, the welcome change he 


AMIABLENESS. 


205 


had been the means of producing in her temper. 
Never, since the affair of the broken jar, had they 
been pained by any remarkable violence of expres- 
sion or action. The former prevented all jealousy 
on account of her attachment to the youth ; and the 
latter rendered him an object of attraction and at- 
tachment to them. 

When the time arrived for his departure to school 
Mr. Morin took charge of him to London, and then 
to Hertford : there he saw him comfortably settled 
among the junior scholars of that excellent estab- 
lishment. His improvement was quite equal to 
general expectation. About two years ago, he ar- 
rived at Madras, where he bids fair to rise to emi- 
nence and fortune. Under the disguise of a name 
purposely feigned, no doubt many of our readers 
will recognize the original of this picture. 


■O’ MS I? fit) ©©RMS® PAQKVa 

Wiia.t is it? what is it? so soft and clear 
It rises upon her listening ear, 

Now pealing forth in a louder strain, 

Now murmuring, dying away again ! 

What is it? what is it? it seems to thrill 
Through her heart, and its beating pulse grows still : 
And she scarcely breathes, lest that breath should be 
A check to the ravishing melody. 

Well might she fancy some fairy sprite, 

With her laughing eye and her locks of light, 

And a tiny lute, while she draws from it 
Those tones of music so exquisite ; 

Well might she fancy, this elf was hid 
Beneath that curious old box-lid, 

For she could not deem that the harmony 
The product of human art could be. 

Sure none but a fairy hand could bring 
The silvery notes that round her ring. 


THE PRISONED FAIRY, 


But hark ! t ’is a fainter, softer strain, 
And she listens still, but she lists in vain 
A saddened look steals o ’er her brow, 
For her musical box is silent now ! 


‘tTHU ® A KI © E. 


If ever there was a charming child, 

’ T was little Emily Tree ; 

She looked so sweet whene’er she smiled, 
And was so full of glee. 

Her grandpapa was a fine old man ; 

I yet remember him well : 

He used to sing me many a song, 

And many a story tell. 

And he had many a pleasant whim, 

To please the children small ; 

He ’d nurse a doll for a little girl, 

With boys he ’d play at ball. 

And every mark of anxious care 
Was driven from his brow; 

There cheerfulness maintained her throne, 
He cared not why nor how. 

The nail I’ve never as yet forgot, 
Whereon his fiddle hung ; 

I ’ve often seen him join in the dance, 
While he both played and sung. 


THE DANCE. 


209 


His fiddle Emily once took down, 

And tried a tune to play ; 

When that she found she could not do, 
She put it safe away. 

And when her grandpapa came in, 
She cast at it a glance ; 

Then said he, “Emily! do you wish 
To have a little dance]” 

The lovely Emily thus replied, 

“ My grandpapa I do.” 

He showed her then her steps to take, 
And danced a hornpipe through. 
And Emily tried to follow him ; 

She did it too quite well, 

Nor made a trip, nor a mis-step, 

Nor fault for me to tell. 

He told her then of other things, 
Cotillion, waltz, and reel, 

And tried the art of dancing all, 

To Emily to reveal. 

Said Emily to her grandpapa, 

“ I love to see you dance ; 

You cast at me such pleasant looks, 
And many a merry glance. 

27 


210 


THE VIOLET. 


The silver buckles on your shoes, 

Like sparkling diamonds shine, 

Sure silver could not brighter be, 

Just taken from the mine. 

And when you’re dancing, grandpapa, 

They ’re like the twinkling stars, 

They gleam like the ocean’s waves in the sun, 
And nought their brightness mars. 

When you dance and play on your violin, 

I feel like dancing too ; 

Hereafter, grandsire, when you dance 
I ’ll always dance with you.” 


June, 1841. 


J. B. L. 


■u* ® AM Q M IF A M “C 1 


Ah, cease thy tears and sobs, my little life ! 

I did but snatch away the unclasp’d knife : 
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, 

And to quick laughter change this peevish cry ! 
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of wo, 

Tutor’d by pain each source of pain to know ! 
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire: 

Alike the good, the ill offend thy sight, 

And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! 
Untaught, yet wise ! ’mid all thy brief alarms 
Thou closely clingest to thy mother’s arms, 
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast, 
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest. 
Man’s breathing miniature ! thou mak’st me sigh 
A babe art thou — and such a thing am I ! 

To anger rapid, and as soon appeas’d, 

For trifles mourning, and by trifles pleas’d, 


212 


THE VIOLET. 


Break friendship’s mirror with a tetchy blow, 

Yet snatch what coals of fire on pleasure’s altar 
glow ! 

0 thou that rearest with celestial aim 
The future seraph in my mortal frame, 

Thrice holy faith ! whatever thorns I meet, 

As on I totter with unpractis’d feet, 

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, 
Meek nurse of souls thro’ their long infancy ! 


S. T. C. 


TOIE ©TOW 


[see FRONTISPIECE.] 

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 

Come hither, my boy, and sit by my knee, 

And I ’ll read thee a tale of the olden time — 
A tale of the wild and wandering bee, 

Who went to listen the harebell’s chime. 

It was in the flowery month of June, 

When all was laughing in earth and sky, 

And the mountain rivulets sang a tune 
Of freedom and love as they bounded by — 

When the daisy lifted its modest head 
In the lonely path of the wilderness, 

And the buttercups over the fields were spread, 
Like an army of flowers in fairy dress 


214 THE VIOLET. 

It was in this beautiful month of bloom, 

Two bees went forth in the morning air, 

To rove mid a garden’s rich perfume, 

And sip the sweets that were lavished there. 

The one went on from flower to flower, 

And gently drank the nectared dew — 

From the wild-rose path to the woodbine bower, 
The haunt of each fragrant leaf he knew. 

He stopped to peep in the lily’s bell, 

And hummed a tune in the violet’s ear — 

And his kiss so soft on the lilac fell, 

That she scarcely moved her head for fear. 

But he roved along in gentle mood, 

Just dallied a moment, and then away, 

Nor revelled in sweets till his sober blood 
To the flames of excess had become a prey. 

The other, a proud and thoughtless elf, 

Drank deep wherever he found the dew ; 

With a fool’s delight he pleased himself, 

Nor dreamed how much he might after rue. 


THE STORY BOOK. 


215 


He rambled about from flower to flower, 

And searched for the strongest and deepest perfume, 

And wasted many an idle hour 

Mid the garden’s vilest and rankest bloom, 

Till at length he came where a honied jar 
With open mouth invited him in ; 

He saw the luscious delight afar, 

And eagerly flew to the tempting sin. 

The evening came with its balmy breeze, 

And its silent hour of deep repose, 

And there sounded a voice thro’ the motionless trees 
That every winged creature knows — 

A voice that comes like a gentle moan, 

Of the land of shadows and sleep to tell — 

And the sober bee, at that whispered tone, 

Flew back in peace to his dainty cell. 

But his careless friend heard not the call 
That came from the land of shades afar, 

For he lay a ruined, self-martyred thrall, 

O’erwhelmed in the sweets of the honied jar. 


216 


THE VIOLET. 


The story is done — but remember, child, 

The wholesome truth which the tale would 
Nor be by pleasure’s delights beguiled 
From virtue’s safer and calmer way. 


THE END. 




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